


Off the Leash

by Soulburnt



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Feral Spike, Light-Hearted, Sexual Content, Sweet, season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27002161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulburnt/pseuds/Soulburnt
Summary: Spike never has behaved the way Buffy expected... not even when he's a feral demon.At the end of 'Lover's Walk,' instead of sending his goons to fight Spike, Mayor Wilkins sends them to capture him.  When they return with the vampire and a bonus Slayer, Wilkins injects them with some new drugs he got from Professor Walsh over at the university.  With Buffy stripped of her strength and Spike stripped of his human traits, all the Mayor has to do is lock them in a room and let the Slayer of Slayers do what he does best.Buffy wakes up weak, injured, in chains, and at the complete mercy of her mortal enemy.  Yet instead of torturing and killing her, Spike frees her and tends her wounds.  She can't ask him why, because he's nonverbal.  The two of them form a bond, depending on each other to escape.  By the time Buffy and Spike get free of the Mayor's clutches, everything between them has changed... as has everything Buffy thought she knew about demons.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 161





	1. A Spike Problem

Sunnydale

August 1998

***

“Welcome, Mayor Wilkins.”

He beamed at the woman in the doorway and stepped into Lowell House. “So good to see you, Colonel. I don’t often get over to campus. Gosh, it’s so quiet here with the students gone.”

“We’re getting a lot done before classes resume.” Maggie Walsh took his hand. She always admired his perfect politician’s handshake: four symmetrical pumps up and down, firm grasp without being a contest, and never any perspiration. “And, please call me ‘professor’ or ‘doctor.’ I’ll be leaving the military at the end of the week.”

“You’ve been ‘disavowed?’” he asked breathlessly. “Like a spy novel!” He chuckled to let her know he was making a joke. “No, no, Dr. Walsh, I absolutely understand the need for secrecy sometimes.”

“And we’ll do all we can to make sure knowledge of the subterrestrial beings stays classified.”

“Wouldn’t want to do anything to damage Sunnydale’s image as a wholesome town to raise a family and as the perfect seaside paradise for that weekend getaway.”

Maggie Walsh, a serious person, was never sure just how much the mayor bought into that ‘wholesome’ image of the town. But he had been essential in the construction of the underground facility. Lowell House had been scheduled for demolition, but Wilkins convinced the school’s chancellor that he had a grant for historical renovation. He’d eliminated the need for permits and inspections and, perhaps most importantly, provided a reliable record of the warren of tunnels beneath the town. He’d joked that some of the subterrestrials must burrow, but it was a fact that the sewer tunnels seemed to shift or move (or even disappear) sometimes. They were using a natural cave system to minimize excavation, and security would have been impossible without him. Even with his schematics and all possible precautions, seven construction workers had already disappeared.

Now she gestured him toward the elevator off the old dormitory’s foyer. “Please. I can’t wait to for you to see how far along we are.”

“After you,” Wilkins said affably. He would never precede a lady.

Walsh talked about electrical conduits as they descended, and Wilkins mostly tuned out the technical talk. She might be posing as a mere professor, but he bet she was still a colonel when she reported to her boss in the maze of shell companies and government contracts making the facility possible. 

He wished he could brag about this, because it was so wonderfully duplicitous. The military thought they were getting access to a natural egress point for ‘hostile subterrestrials’ and a naïve local politician in their pocket. They were completely wrong. He was getting a secure underground facility nearly tailor-made for his Ascended form, with wide hallways, modern surveillance, and plenty of cell space for his enemies. He’d even managed to change the plans so the heating system would keep up with his future cold-blooded nature. Walsh looked over at Mayor Wilkins when the elevator reached the bottom, and he gave her a cheery and sincere smile.

Fifteen or so minutes later, she finished the tour and led him to her underground office. “I have something for you, by the way.”

“Oh? Boy, the chief of police really liked the last gift you gave me. That Taser gun is something,” he chuckled.

“This is a bit less impressive to look at,” Walsh said modestly as she unlocked a shelf. Lifting the door, the professor carefully checked neatly labeled rows of vials before taking out six. She locked up and turned back to Wilkins, holding out the vials. “The ones with green labels work with any tranquilizer darts. They’ll take down even the largest HSTs.”

He frowned at the vials of clear liquid. “How is it different from detomidine?” That was the horse sedative they typically used on werewolves.

“Well, chemically they’re nothing alike. But the important difference is the half-life. Most tranquilizers won’t work for longer than half an hour. This one will knock out a humanoid-sized HST for a full twenty-four hours. It stays in their system and keeps their muscles lax for another forty-eight to seventy-two.”

“Gosh! That is powerful.”

“The drug with the red label is for sanguinary hostiles.”

Walsh really didn’t like the word ‘vampire.’ “What does it do?”

She hesitated a moment, as if ashamed of what she was about to say. “We’ve had trouble with some of our agents who experience emotional distress when terminating that type. That drug suppresses the ability to impersonate a human.”

“Huh. So they can’t switch from the fangs and bumpies?” He waved a vague hand around his forehead.

“Once that drug is administered, they not only cannot disguise their features, they can’t use language to influence the agent.”

“What a wonder of science,” Wilkins said, genuinely impressed. Vampires were hybrids, a demon with a human chassis, and what she was describing sounded like it suppressed the remaining traits of the person. “And this goes in a tranquilizer dart, too?”

“No.” A hint of irritation crept into her voice. “The sanguinary type doesn’t have an observable circulatory system.” If she could drug them reliably, she’d already have an assassination squad ready for special missions. Electrical brain stimulation was showing promise, though. “The ‘Taser’ you gave your chief of police is the only way to bring those down.” Which meant agents had to be close, which was dangerous, since they were so strong and fast. Some of them had cunning that was almost like intelligence.

“So, injection after tasing?” Wilkins nodded his understanding and put the vials in an inner pocket of his suit coat. “You’re just a wonderful friend to the town, Colonel – sorry, Dr. Walsh. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll have need of this, even with your agents around.”

“If the build proceeds on schedule, we’ll begin culling the herds for specimens next summer.”

“Wonderful. And you’re getting everything you need from city hall?” They spoke about general things on the elevator ride back to Lowell House and shook hands again at the door. “I can’t wait to see the project when it’s finished.” It was true; he couldn’t wait to eat all her agents and researchers and take possession of the facility.

“I’m looking forward to showing off the final product.” Walsh barely kept from checking her watch; she had a lot of paperwork to plow through.

Richard Wilkins gave her a final genial smile. “Say, you wouldn’t know if the chancellor is on campus, would you? I want to promote town-gown cooperation as much as I can while I’m out this way.”

October 1998

“Dammit!” Mr. Trick hissed. “Fuckin’ Lenny!” He turned to the vampire next to him on the roof where they were watching a retrieval operation. “He was supposed to drag Spike outside, that’s all.” They were on top of a building across from the magic store, watching as the last of the vampires disappeared inside. From the sounds, it was clear a fight was going on. Worse, Trick could still hear Spike’s distinctive voice. The blond punk did not sound remotely like he was being dragged anywhere. How could he salvage this? He was already on Wilkins’ list after the whole Slayerfest fiasco.

The other vampire, a quiet fellow, turned to the chunky rifle he’d carried out of city hall. “You want me to shoot him?”

“Who, Lenny? You got wooden bullets in that thing?”

“No. Spike.” The reply was patient, almost bored.

“We’re not trying to kill him. He’s too high profile.” Mr. Trick planned to get the blond to the city limit and send him on his way. He was reputed to be hot-tempered and impatient, but sane. Unlike a lot of demons, he could be reasoned with.

The other vampire frowned. “What if I tase him? I’d have to go down there. That won’t kill him.”

“What’s your name?”

“John.”

“Well, John, what exactly are you packing?” Down on street level, there was a huge crash as something in the store got knocked over. Possibly a load-bearing something.

He lifted the tip of the gun. “Taser.” When Mr. Trick started to scoff, he added, “Seen this take down a Chirago.”

His expression changed as hope blossomed. He might manage this assignment after all. “Well, John, what are you waiting for? Get down there and light him up!”

He followed at his leisure. By the time he picked his way through the broken glass and overturned shelves to the back door of the magic store, John was standing over three figures, two normal sized and one much larger. “You take down a moose, too?” he joked.

John spat. “That’s Angel.”

“The ‘great’ Angelus?” Mr. Trick asked, a delighted smile sliding into place. “Oh, this is a special moment. I’ve heard stories about how nuts he was last spring. Time for one of those wooden bullets, John.”

“All I have is the Taser gun.”

And so much for John being a cut above the average minion. Mr. Trick jerked his head back to the store. “Well, plenty of broken wooden furniture in there. Just find something stake-like.” He nudged the smallest form with his polished shoe. “Who’s – you brought down the Slayer?” The smile came back in full force. “Never mind staking the big ’un. Help me get these two into the SUV.” He picked up the Slayer – she was so small! – and tossed her over his shoulder before he realized she was bleeding. “What happened to her?”

John shrugged. “Spike came out first, then Angel. When he fell, she charged me. I kicked her back inside, and I think she fell on some glass.”

And then John had dragged her outside. Mr. Trick was tempted to take a taste – her blood smelled wonderful – but he was well fed and knew his best interest lay in letting Wilkins decide what to do with her. Once Spike and the Slayer were in the cargo area, he sent John back to stake the big vampire. Sunnydale wasn’t a large town, and he figured the other vamp could walk to city hall. Plus, he didn’t want any of John’s input as he put the best spin on the operation. Ten minutes later, Mr. Trick knocked on the door to the mayor’s office and waited for Wilkins to call him inside. 

“Well? How did it go?”

“I have Spike in the back of the SUV. I’ll stake him or take him out of town, whichever you want, but…” Mr. Trick paused for dramatic effect, “I bagged a Slayer, too. The blond one.”

“I knew you were the right man for the job.” Mayor Wilkins put down his pen and frowned, thinking hard for a moment. “You know that house on the east side I set up for the Snecken who wanted tribute?” While Mr. Trick assured him that he did, the mayor went to the sideboard and rummaged in a drawer. “Take them there and lock them in. Use the manacles on the Slayer, but not on Spike. Take these, too.” He handed over a case that held a syringe already fitted with a needle and two vials. 

“Use the one with the green label on the Slayer and the one with the red label on the vampire.” Wilkins gave him a concerned look. “You aren’t colorblind, are you? Because red-green is the most common kind of color blindness, and it affects men much more often than women.”

“Color blindness has never been a problem,” Mr. Trick replied, a certain irony in his voice.

“That’s good, then. Now, remember, don’t shackle Spike, just the Slayer. Leave a few guards, but once that door closes, they’re in there for three days.”

“Human guards be okay? That idiot Lenny got a bunch of our best vampires dusted tonight trying to fight Spike.” When Wilkins lifted a brow, he offered reassurance. “Lenny’s also dust.”

“Sure, just remember to rotate them out. Humans need sleep. Oh, this works out nicely.” Grinning, he added, “Leave a few tools in there. Our friend Spike might want to get creative. He’s going to be in our debt and, best of all, he won’t have any reason to stay in Sunnydale after he kills his third Slayer.”

By now, Mr. Trick knew when a meeting with the mayor was at an end. He wondered what the drugs were, but he could figure that out for himself. He gave a wave of his free hand and headed back to the SUV. Better to get the two blonds shot up before they woke and caused him trouble.

Angel stifled a moan. Why was he laying on the floor of an alley? For a sliding, swimming moment, he thought he was back in his pre-Buffy life, homeless and on the hunt for rats to feed himself. Somewhere behind him, he could hear a shuffling, clinking, irregular noise. Could be danger– 

Buffy! 

He tried to sit up, and it saved his life. A jagged piece of wood went into his shoulder instead of his chest cavity. Snarling, Angel cuffed the vampire who was trying to stake him. Another one of the gang that had been after Spike, he supposed. The makeshift stake clattered to the ground next to him, and he grabbed it.

The other vampire was getting to his feet, trying to bring a gun to bear on Angel. The older demon was on him before he could get the barrel aimed, and weak though he was, Angel was fast and strong enough to slam the wood into its heart. The gun dusted along with the vampire.

Angel leaned against the wall of the magic store and closed his eyes, listening. Where was Buffy? Or Spike, for that matter? He didn’t remember anything once he’d walked out the back door. The last thing he remembered was Spike saying he didn’t want a spell, that Willow and the boy were at the burned-out factory, and that he was going to find Drusilla.

Spike had lied, of course. Overlaying the scent of all the vampires, Angel could smell Buffy’s blood. He followed the scent to four different splotches that led to the street, where the trail ended abruptly. Spike’s familiar smell ended there, too. He had put her in a car and taken her away.

To Drusilla? As a present? His mad child would kill Buffy, if Spike didn’t. Despair, an old friend, settled in, and Angel sank to the curb, putting his head in his hands. Either way, Buffy was going to die. And there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t at full strength. Giles was out of town. 

Angel forced himself upright once more and set his feet on the familiar path to the factory. He could set Buffy’s friends loose, if they really were there, tell them what happened. Leave the logistics to them. Then he would go back to the quiet of the mansion and mourn his loss.


	2. Waking up Feral

The demon blinked, squinting a little against the light of a bare bulb overhead. Even with a hangover, he knew it was two hours past sunrise and that he was in a building with three humans, one quite close. Then he frowned. Wait. Not hungover. He wasn’t sure what this sensation was, exactly. He’d never felt this way before.

He sat up, deciding to go to his other face since humans were about. He was still frowning over the missing time that wasn’t due to alcohol – he hated it when he drank too much in unsecure locations, but try telling that to his heartbroken other half – when he realized he was still squinting. Instead of blue eyes that would be fine in the dim electric light, his sharp amber eyes were still in place.

Spike tried again, then once more. Fuck. Magic, must be. He put his back against the nearest wall, scooting over some chains. He looked down and saw a manacle on one end. Using the toe of his boot, he kicked it so that it rattled over the concrete floor. Wherever he was, there was too much resonance in the structure for it to be a true dungeon; he was above ground.

Turning the other way, he saw a door, a table with the gleam of metal gadgets, and the slumped form of a small human. He realized he hadn’t been breathing in his habitual way and pulled in air to gather more information.

Less than a second later, he was across the ten feet between him and his mate. “Buffy!” he wanted to say, but all that came out was a curt growl, the word ‘mate’ in the old language. Reaching for her, Spike saw that his fingers ended in sharp claws. She was already hurt; he could smell blood and didn’t want to harm her more. He tried reverting to human form once again, then growled in frustration.

Very carefully, he put his palm on her shoulder and shook her. Her head lolled to the side and she gave a small groan of protest. As she moved, he heard the clink of chains. Spike followed the links from the manacles on her wrists to a ring in the wall, and his low growl became a snarl of fury.

In another burst of vampire speed, he was at the door, ready to kill whoever had imprisoned his mate. The doorknob did not so much as rattle as he pulled on it. Spike put a booted foot against the wall and tugged again, to no result. He tried kicking down the door, but it felt as solid as rock. Next, he tried slamming his shoulder into the wall, which looked like regular plaster. He rebounded off it.

The violence calmed him just enough, and he made himself stay where he was, a few feet from the door, almost vibrating with frustration. Spike could feel the magic around the room, keeping him in. Keeping them in. 

His wide shoulders slumped. He finally had time alone with his mate, and he couldn’t do anything to show he could keep her safe. What the hell happened between the time he left the magic shop and now? It was all a blank; he could smell the scent of other vampires, but why would they leave him – or especially the Slayer – alive? Thinking wasn’t his forte, but just now he needed to stop and prioritize.

Buffy. She came first. Her wounds needed tending, and she needed to be free of those chains. Absolutely no chains on his mate unless he put them on her. Bare metal on her small wrists! Growling again, he wished for a mammal to slaughter and skin, for something to put between her delicate flesh and hard iron. Spike stalked to the table to see if there was something useful, then grew still when he saw what lay there.

Saws. Pliers. Hammers. Innocent enough unless you were a vampire and could smell old blood on the implements. These were for torture.

And his mate was chained up.

Spike saw red for a moment, his hands clenched into such tight fists that his nails pierced his own skin. Only decades of control kept him from hurling his body fruitlessly at the door in an effort to get to their captors, slamming into the magical barrier until his bones broke. No, if he did that, he would be useless when they, whoever they were, came for them.

And why was he loose, anyway? Why hadn’t he been shackled, too? If someone bothered to capture them, why would they leave him free?

The answer came right away and left him slumped against the corner of the table, his eyes closed in resignation. 

Because he was the Slayer of Slayers.

This torture chamber was set up for him. Someone thought he was going to do their dirty work for them. He sneered; as if he would ever torture a Slayer. Angelus never could force him to develop a taste for torturing humans, much less the Slayers he considered his true prey. And this one, he considered the only being on the planet worthy to be his mate.

Who needed his help right now, whatever he could manage. He opened his eyes, resolve in his expression. For the first time, he noticed a white porcelain sink affixed to the wall, previously blocked from his view by the table. Two towels hung on a rack beside it, not fresh but not used since laundered some months ago. He turned his head to check on Buffy and felt a twinge on the side of his neck. She was still asleep or unconscious, and he absently put his fingertip on the tender spot, bringing the pad to his nose to sniff.

The faint odor of a chemical concoction. He’d been drugged or injected with some magical potion that kept him from moving between human and demon form. Spike’s eyes widened below the high arches of his eyebrows. Buffy must have been drugged, too, for her to sleep through his loud escape attempt.

On the thought, he stilled and used his enhanced vampire senses to locate the other heartbeats he’d noted when he woke. Both were still about the same distance away. Guards? If they were speaking, he couldn’t hear anything.

Dismissing them – what were humans going to do against him, now that he was alert? – Spike went to the sink and turned on the tap. After a moment, the rusty water ran clear. He wet one of the towels and carried it to where Buffy was chained. Sinking down next to her, he looked at her lovely face, his own features softening as much as they could. His mate. His eyes dropped to her chest, where her jacket was open enough to put her lush breasts on display. Mate. It had a double meaning in the ancient language, too.

For decades, he thought Drusilla was his mate. She wasn’t the best mate – she wasn’t reliable or faithful – but she was strong and a survivor. He loved her, would do anything for her.

Then Angelus came back to their nest. It took a couple of months looking at things from wheelchair level for him to fall out of love and stop thinking of Drusilla as his mate. If only his human side would give up his lingering emotions! Spike had already found a much better mate for them.

Funny how he’d never considered any of the other Slayers he’d fought. Well, maybe Nikki. He admired the New York Slayer, and she was fecund, had already spawned. Not that it did the demon much good in a dead body, but fertility was always arousing. Spike was a one-female, family-oriented vampire, and he liked that about Nikki. But she was never going to consider a relationship, her thinking too rigid.

Buffy was different and had been from the moment he saw her. The human side had dismissed her because she was so young, but he’d noted her power and her nubile body. Though she was small, she had good hips. He could tell just by the way she moved when she danced that she had passion, yet he never scented any males on her. She had more integrity than Drusilla, for sure.

He was lost after their first fight, falling hard for the tiny Slayer. The way they moved together, even as opponents! She was young, so Spike knew he would win, and that’s how Joyce Summers gained his adoration: she’d stepped in so he didn’t have to kill his mate before he even had a chance to know her.

Buffy saw him, too. She knew he’d give up the prey at the Sunset Club in exchange for Drusilla. She was so smart! No one had ever used his love for Dru as leverage against him – well, except for Angelus, which was a different story altogether. Was it any wonder he’d sought her out as soon as he could walk again?

Yet for all his clearheaded desire for a mate worthy of the name, his human half clung to the fantasy that Drusilla loved him. As if the hypocrite wasn’t just as fascinated by Buffy – filming her to study her ‘fighting style.’ While he just wanted to be with Buffy, the body he inhabited filtered everything through a complicated and frankly insane set of social behaviors and rationalizations. 

Spike knew his whole self wasn’t wrong. While he would just plow ahead and offer himself up to Buffy, she was human and wouldn’t know what to do with him. Get himself staked, most likely. He saw that they were equals, worthy mates for each other, but she wasn’t equipped to understand his devotion, his love. That had to go through his human side, which for some reason was resistant to the idea that Buffy was The One. 

Just because they’d tried to kill each other…

Well, his human side wasn’t here just now. And even if he was, he would take care of Buffy (or ‘The Slayer,’ as he called her), too, only with more talking. As Spike held the towel toward her face, he noticed his claws again and groaned. Well, he could bite off the tips and blunt them a little. She might still be scratched by the ragged edges, but not deeply. Something almost warm spread through his chest as he prepared to take care of his chosen mate.


	3. Parlor Games

Buffy opened her eyes to see Spike gnawing on a hangnail. With his fangs. She immediately closed her eyes, her brows drawing together in disbelief at what her sleeping brain was calling a dream these days. She blinked again. Still there, still had a finger in his mouth. This definitely called for five more minutes.

Then she felt a wet, rough something on her cheek. “Whu…?” she managed, trying to sit up. Buffy felt weak, the way she had when she was hospitalized with the flu. Her back hurt everywhere, and her hands felt so heavy.

The wet thing rubbed her other cheek, and she opened her eyes, finding Spike’s yellow eyes gazing into hers from not a foot away. “Aah!” she cried, jerking away. Then, “Oww!” Something in her back really hurt. She knew by the clanking even before looking down that there was a very good reason her hands felt heavy: she was wearing manacles.

“Back off!” she demanded, getting as far away as possible, which wasn’t nearly far enough. Spike sat back on his haunches, lifting his hands. One of them held a wet towel. Buffy looked around the room, finding it mostly bare at eye level. There were more chains for shackling victims to the wall, though, and her eyes were panicky when they went back to the vampire. “Where am I?”

Spike shrugged and heaved a sigh. He held out the towel, but made no other movement. He watched her look for exits, for potential weapons. Next, she would test the restraints.

Buffy tugged on the chains, finding that she had no hope of getting out of them. It wasn’t that they were especially sturdy; something was wrong. She was just so… weak.

“What did you do to me?” she snarled. When Spike shook his head, Buffy glared at him. “All right, Spike. Start talking. I want to know what’s going on.”

He shrugged again and put one hand over his mouth.

“You can’t talk?” He nodded vigorously, clearly pleased she understood, and Buffy frowned. “Great. My dream come true, just with the lousy timing.” He looked affronted. Even with his game face on, he really did have the most expressive face. “Do you know what happened?”

Frustration settled onto his face as he shook his head. Without clever human words, it wasn’t going to be easy to gain her cooperation. He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath, holding up a finger: give me a minute. He pointed two fingers at her eyes, then one at himself, repeating the gestures a couple of times.

“Watch you?” Buffy guessed.

The vampire nodded. He went to the other set of chains and mimed waking up, then walked to the door, where he didn’t bother miming, just tried to open it again.

“We’re locked in?” Her brows drew together. “So? That’s just drywall, Spike.”

He rolled his eyes before lowering his shoulder and ramming into it at half strength. Then he drew himself up into a dramatic pose and thrust both hands at the door and the walls, fingers stiff.

“Someone zapped the door and walls with magic?” When Spike beamed at her, his smile putting sharp fangs on prominent display, she nodded. “Any idea who?”

Spike shook his head, shrugged, and made little vamp fangs with his fingers in front of his face.

“Those guys at the Magic Box?” Buffy supposed that made sense. Then she froze. “Angel? Did they get him?”

Tamping down his irritation at that question, Spike shrugged. He touched his nose and shook his head.

“You don’t smell him,” Buffy breathed in relief. “That’s good. He’ll be looking for us. And he knows where Wil and Xander are.” She relaxed a little. Spike didn’t seem in any hurry to kill her, at least, which gave her an idea. “So, while we’re here… truce? Enemy of my enemy and everything?”

The blond vampire gave her a slow smile. They really were good together. He gave her a thumb’s-up.

“Great. Think you could lose the bumpies?” She was surprised when he shook his head and shrugged. “You can’t speak or wear your human face? How did that happen?”

Spike came to her, squatting down beside her, and Buffy couldn’t help flinching a little. He tilted his head and pointed to his neck, leaning closer. Giving him a mistrustful glance, she cocked her head and looked, finding a tiny hole.

“Someone shot you up with something that brings out your demon?”

Spike smiled and growled, popping up his thumb again. He stilled, and though his brows couldn’t draw together, she still read the concern on his face as he pointed to his injection site, then at her.

Buffy’s eyes widened. She lifted her hands, making the chains clank, and felt along her neck, then her arms. High on one deltoid, she felt a sore place and tugged her hoodie down her shoulder to look. “I’ve been shot, too.” Looking at the little hole made her feel vulnerable and violated. Moving the jacket back into place, she zipped it a little higher, to Spike’s disappointment. “Truce, right?” she asked, not looking at him. “I think whatever they put in me was to make me weak.” What finally made her look up was the gentle hand he put on her forearm.

When he had Buffy’s attention, Spike mimed pulling the chains. She gave it a try, but nothing happened. He stood and put his boot on the chain very close to where the manacle bound her left hand before grasping the links on the opposite side. In two jarring tugs, he pulled the iron hoop holding the chain from the wall.

“Thanks,” Buffy said, glad to be somewhat free.

Spike squatted down again and retrieved the damp towel. He gestured at her back.

“I’ll be fine,” she began, but a growl cut her off. Buffy stared at him a moment, then her eyes dropped to the towel. “Okay, okay,” she said grudgingly. He was right, which sucked. It felt like something was lodged in the sorest spot. The last thing she needed was an infection. Who knew if whatever she’d been drugged with affected Slayer healing, too.

Buffy unzipped her hoodie and took it off, wincing as the wounds along her back pulled. Spike moved behind her, a frown already on his ferocious face. She looked over her shoulder to see him hesitate, then take off his duster and the red shirt he wore open beneath it. That one he passed to her, giving her a handful of silk. She was annoyed with herself for expecting it to be warm from his body.

Spike settled behind her, his legs on either side of her hips, and regarded the damage. He forced back a growl; several of the wounds were deeper than scratches. He took a switchblade from his boot and thumbed the catch. It would hurt her too much to pull the sleeveless shirt, a tight, pale green tank of some synthetic material, over her head. He lifted the tail and put the sharp blade to the fabric, which parted easily.

Buffy knew he was cutting away her shirt, and she wanted to protest until she felt the cloth catch against whatever was still in her back. “How bad is it?” she asked. His answer was a hand circling her forearm, a brief second of reassurance before it was gone. Then he quickly undid the clasp of her bra, making her cradle her chest with her arms.

Spike eyed the piece of glass firmly lodged in his mate’s sweet flesh, his amber eyes murky with fury. Taking a couple of calming breaths, he took it carefully in his grasp, making sure he had a good hold. He put his other hand on Buffy’s shoulder, warning her to stay still, and drew it out in one steady motion.

Buffy winced, then felt him press the towel against her back. Her ruined hoodie was on the floor, and he laid a two-inch long piece of glass on it. She moved her shoulders experimentally. “I think you got all of it.” Then her eyes flew wide. Spike had his mouth on her back. Before she could even draw away, he’d leaned to the side and was spitting her blood on the hoodie, his nose wrinkled with distaste. Whatever she’d been injected with wasn’t yummy, she supposed.

Spike put his tongue against the cut a couple of more times, hating that the ambrosia of Slayer blood was tainted by the drug. The clotting factor in his saliva helped slow the trickle of blood. He hoped it would help clean the wound, too, but he had no idea if a vampire’s natural inability to host germs could be used as an antiseptic this way. 

Gripping the hem of his loose, once-black t-shirt, he tore off a strip and folded it, pressing it over the wound. Since he didn’t have anything else to hold it in place, he ripped off more fabric and passed the ends to Buffy, offering them to her beside either arm. She was, adorably, holding her bra in place, like it hid much, anyway. His bright girl got the idea and knotted the two ends together beneath the straps of her bra as he held it over the makeshift dressing.

He used the damp towel to clean each of the other cuts, none of which was as deep. His saliva closed the rest, though her own healing already had the shallow scratches scabbing over. Spike gently redid her bra clasp, then reached to take his red shirt from her grasp. It was warm, which made him smile as he started to dress her in his clothes, a bit of territory-staking that pleased him… And then he realized she still wore manacles.

Without thinking it might be best to try to explain what he was doing, Spike stood and scooped her up in his arms. Buffy squeaked and flailed until one arm was latched around his neck.

“Spike, what the hell!” she protested, just as he sat her on the metal table. Spike took a step back, his hands held up to indicate he meant no harm. He pointed at her wrist, then at the tools on the table.

Buffy frowned. “You want to try to hammer the manacles off? I don’t think so!” The vampire rolled his eyes and picked up one of the pairs of pliers, examining it. He dropped it and grabbed another pair. Watching, Buffy realized she’d panicked for no reason. He was only trying to help, and just because he wore the face of an animal didn’t mean he didn’t have his human intelligence. She put out her hand, dragging the chains across the table with a metallic noise of misery. “Spike? I’m sorry. What do you plan on trying?”

He held out a needle-nosed pair of pliers, but that meant nothing to her. Spike gently took her fingers and rolled her hand so that the opposite side of the manacle showed. It was hinged.

“Oh! I get it.” Her wrist was slight, so a lot of the bolt showed where the cuff had to be tightened.

Spike tapped her forehead and smiled at her. The pliers had a long, slender tip with wire cutters integrated in the metal. As long as the steel tool was strong enough and the blades even a little sharp, his strength would see his mate released.

The first manacle took two or three minutes of work before the pin gave way. The second one gave way almost at once, causing Spike to grunt in surprise. The manacle fell to the floor, pulling the chain and snaking the whole arrangement onto the floor with lots of loud clanking.

Buffy rubbed her second wrist, then gave Spike a quick, impulsive hug. “Thanks.” He looked almost abashed, which was adorable, then took her hands so he could examine her skin. She studied him as he did, deciding that he didn’t look so much ferocious as formidable. Too bad he’d turn back into Sir Talks-A-Lot when the drugs wore off. When he let go, she shrugged into his shirt, wincing a little as the wounds in her back pulled, then quickly did up the buttons. She had to roll the sleeves up a few times until her fingers appeared.

From her perch, she’d spotted the sink, so she went over to wash her hands, then cup them to get a drink. “Too bad there’s no soap. What kind of caliber of captors are – Oh!” Buffy jerked because Spike was next to her, soundless and moving no air in front of him. “You need one of those collars with a bell on it.”

He hung the damp towel back on the rack, fighting to keep a smile from his face. If she wanted to put a mark of ownership on him, he wouldn’t fight it. But she’d be wearing one, too.

“So, no other exits?” Buffy was looking up, searching for ductwork, but the ceiling was flat and featureless. On the word, Spike leapt onto the metal table and pressed his palm against the plaster, then scowled. “That’s magicked, too? 

He nodded before dropping down lightly next to her. She was doing exactly what he expected, because she was capable and bright, a survivor like him. 

Buffy went to the door and twisted the knob, then pulled on it. She checked the door with her fingertips, looking for any hidden triggers that might open it. She gave the wall a hard kick with the ball of her foot, but not even a flake of plaster came loose. Letting out a little huff of disappointment, she turned and looked around the room. 

Spike had been waiting for this. He’d retrieved his duster and already had a hand in a pocket. He produced a fixed blade knife with a flourish and offered it to her, hilt first.

Buffy couldn’t suppress her smile. “Thanks,” she said, removing it from the sheath and examining the blade. It was old but well-maintained, sixteenth century Toledo steel, if she had to guess. Weapons were one of the few training lectures she was truly interested in hearing, much to her Watcher’s despair. Then her brows drew together. “Why do you have your weapons?” Her hand automatically went to the small of her back, though she knew the usual stake wasn’t there.

Spike’s face darkened. He gestured between the two of them before pantomiming punching her.

“Whoever did this wanted you to kill me?”

The blond vampire nodded, his displeasure clear. He didn’t have language, but he could scoff.

“And they don’t realize you’re not interested unless it’s a real fight.” Buffy mused on this a moment. She made herself not break the gaze with the fierce amber eyes. “You could, you know. Kill me.” When he sneered, she asked, “Why not?”

Spike stared at her a moment. Because I love you. Because you’re my mate. He was close to bollixing up everything. Firming his mouth, he held out one finger. With his other hand, he bent it downward. Then he held out two fingers, pressing them together. Oh, the things he might do to her with his fingers in this position… Sharp claws, he reminded himself. He tried again with his other hand to bend the two digits, but this time they remained unbent.

“We’re stronger working together.” Buffy gave a nod, satisfied with this explanation. Then she felt her knee give, the unaccustomed weakness making itself known.

Spike scooped her up in his arms before she could even do a balance check, swinging her in a partial circle to account for his momentum.

“I’m okay,” she reassured him. “The drugs, I guess.”

He set her against the wall, where she could support herself, but not the one with the chains. Grabbing his duster, he held it out, shaking it once, encouraging her to put it on. When she took the heavy leather, he mimed sleep, putting his hands together and pretending to tuck them under his cheek as he laid his head to the side. Spike stood up and put the flat of his hand over his eyes, turning as if he was scanning the horizon.

“The next time I play charades, you’re totally on my team.” They exchanged grins. Buffy held his coat a moment. She should sleep, because he would watch out for her. For them. Her enemy expected her to trust him.

She had before. Giles lived, Spike beat Angelus until Drusilla interfered, and he took the ho-bag and left. The only part of their bargain he hadn’t kept was his return to Sunnydale, but he was here alone, not with the mad vampiress.

The truce worked out okay; the rest of the situation hadn’t, but that wasn’t Spike’s fault. She could hate him for a lot of reasons, but Angel reappearing had nothing to do with the truce and everything to do with Willow’s spell. Trusting him had worked out before.

And she was really, really tired.

“All right. Wake me if you hear anything, okay?”

He nodded and watched her gingerly wrap herself in his coat. Then he went to sit on the metal table, his eyes fixed on the door, all the rest of his awareness on the tiny Slayer against the wall.


	4. Outside and Inside

Angel plodded to the abandoned factory, fighting the memories of being there, powerful and soulless. The structure was mostly whole, but the inside was charred. He wouldn’t be able to smell Drusilla’s scent from last winter, but Spike’s trail was recent and sharp.

He never cared much about Spike one way or the other in the old days, but now he hated him. The little punk had cost him everything. Buffy was gone.

He followed the same path Drusilla’s get had taken, and now Angel could smell not just Willow and Xander, but Oz and Cordelia as well. Picking up the pace, he was at the top of a stairwell just as Cordelia came storming up.

She barely had time to gasp as a weakened tread gave way beneath her. He reached out with vampiric speed and reflexes, pulling her up and against him before she could fall. She gave a little yelp of fear, sending a thrill of delight through him. Angel quickly set her away from him. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she replied, no less furious for her scare, “but I will be.” With that, she stomped off, trailing that alluring, evocative scent of fear.

Oz came up behind her, and there was a difference between his usual bland expression and the stony face he now wore. “Angel,” he said with a nod after skirting the broken step. He, too, walked on out.

Willow and Xander appeared at the bottom of the stairs, the boy leaning to the side so Willow could support him. “Angel!” Willow’s grip on Xander tightened for a moment. “Is Buffy with you?” she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. Before he could explain why, Willow went on.

“Could you help me get Xander up the steps? I-I think he has a concussion.”

Angel tested the top tread, then the second. He stopped on the third and reached down, half-hauling the teenager up to safety. Once Xander was leaning against the wall, Angel put his hand out for Willow and drew her up. She smelled of recent arousal and tears. Just what had happened here?

“Thanks,” she said, sounding shaky. She went to Xander and put her arm around his waist. “Ready?”

Angel trailed after them, toward the headlights of Oz’s van. He’d tell them when they were all together.

Oz got out and opened a door, not really looking at his girlfriend. She tried anyway. “Thanks. You’re a mensch. I mean, you know… He really is injured.”

“Thanks, man,” Xander managed. Oz said nothing and turned to go back to the driver’s side. With Willow’s shove, Xander made it into the seat. In the front, Cordelia stared straight ahead.

Still trying to understand the strange undercurrents swirling around the four humans, Angel flinched when Willow touched his arm.

“Sorry. Listen, tell Buffy to give me a call.”

Before he could say anything, she hoisted herself in the van. The second she shut the door, Oz pulled out.

If anyone had asked, he would have turned down the offer of a ride. He always did. But it was nice to be asked. Angel sighed and turned in the direction of the mansion. Let them rest and get bandaged up. He’d deliver the bad news tomorrow.

***

Giles sighed as he rolled over and wiggled an arm out of his sleeping bag, searching for the rock digging into his shoulder. It was the fifth stone he’d had to move. Tomorrow night, he would blow up the inflatable mattress.

He didn’t care for camping, but the retreat had been appealing just so he could meet some of his peers stationed in North America. Staring up at the roof of his tent, he found himself regretting the short trip. His peers weren’t much interested in talking to him, partly out of jealousy that he’d been assigned a Slayer, partly out of pity that he’d been assigned this particular Slayer.

The whole purpose of the retreat was the supposed Druidic rituals that had been held on these grounds. Well, he had to scoff. Shamanic rituals, sure, but Druidic? The Druids had never made it to the New World. Someone’s scrying was off by thousands of miles.

He smacked at a whining mosquito and sighed. On the other hand, he didn’t have any responsibilities this weekend – they hadn’t even asked him to speak, which was rather rude, as he was, after all, the local Watcher. That freedom alone was enough for him to overlook the slights and the discomfort and stay for the entire retreat. 

Really, the inflatable mattress would make the whole arrangement much more agreeable. If he wasn’t in his boxers and t-shirt, he’d go to the boot of his car and fetch it back right now. But damned if he was going to give these terrible bloodsuckers a chance at his pale British hide. He clapped his hands together and sighed again as he missed the mosquito. Giles rolled over to his other side and determinedly closed his eyes.

***

Spike opened his eyes, not sure what woke him from a warm, comfortable sleep. He drew in a breath before listening, finding neither scent nor sound. Their prison was quiet, except for Buffy’s even breathing and the close by thud of her heart. 

He grew even stiller. How had he ended up beside Buffy? He’d been sitting on the table, halfway paying attention to the human guards in the far end of the building, then… He didn’t remember. 

Frowning, Spike started to sit up, then realized her head was resting on his arm and her hand on his chest. He was snuggled up with his mate. Why did he want to move, again?

Because… she wouldn’t like it?

A little growl of frustration slid from his throat. Something was wrong with his thinking. No one had been in to check on them; nothing had changed. But something had changed; he was… more himself and less Spike.

Then he got it. When Buffy woke, she would be stronger. The drug would be working its way out of her system with every breath she took, through respiration, perspiration, urination. Even the handfuls of water she drank would dilute it.

The drug in his system was becoming concentrated. As he used the blood he’d taken from his last meal, there would be less of everything in his body, but the same amount of drug. Only feeding would scrub it from his insides as his vampiric essence turned the new infusion of blood into life.

Dismayed, he looked down at the Slayer resting against him. How was he going to tell her any of this? The obstacle of having no language was one thing when facing a common problem, but this was far more complicated. He was thinking less, relying on instinct more. That's how he had ended up next to her. She wouldn't like this sudden intimacy. Worse, he wasn’t sure she understood that he’d never hurt her. 

He thought she was going to be afraid of him very soon.

If he didn’t feed, his behavior was going to become less human, and she wouldn’t understand. A misunderstanding could easily lead to a fight, especially as her strength returned. 

He didn’t want to fight her. Much.

He mostly wanted his mate. 

Spike swallowed and looked down at her sweet face, her slightly open mouth, and closed his eyes. 

He was going to revert to his natural state. He’d been hard even before waking; his fangs were already out, thanks to the drug. His needs were on the surface. To feed, to fight, to…

Mate, he thought. Noun and verb.

No, she wasn’t going to understand this at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the challenge by Elysian Fields' pfeifferpack: "Angel expects Spike to have a demon like his and also less control. He pretty much just gives up like he did with her battle with the Master and goes home to brood not helping to try to find her."


	5. Conversation

Buffy woke needing to pee. Part of that was because Spike’s leg was resting on her abdomen, pushing on her bladder. She turned her head slowly and gave the sleeping vampire a wary look. Why was Spike practically wound around her?

“Spike?” She nudged him. He didn’t move, so she speared him with her elbow. It would have been better if she had Slayer strength to put behind it, but it worked anyway. “Personal space issues, much?”

His eyes widened before he moved away, and he held his hands up, conciliatory. 

“Never mind.” Buffy scrambled up and went to the sink, looking around.

Spike sensed her distress and had already had a thought. He rose to his feet and went to point to a drain on the floor near the sink.

Buffy saw where he was pointing and wrinkled her nose. “Eww.” Then she sighed, because she didn’t have a better option and her need was getting critical. “Better than the sink. Turn around,” she ordered. “And go to the door,” because vamp hearing. “Just… don’t look.”

Spike rolled his eyes as he complied. Bossy little thing. He liked that, though, liked that she knew her own mind, had opinions. Drusilla made big decisions and left him to carry them out, but never gave a reason why. Or Drusilla liked things until she didn’t, but she never told him her tastes had changed. No, he had to guess, usually wrong, and then she had an excuse to punish him. But he never faulted her, not until the end, because she was insane.

“Ugh. The maids didn’t leave any soap, honey,” Buffy called sarcastically, breaking into his thoughts. 

He heard the faucet running and drew in a quick breath of air through his nose, analyzing her condition. The Slayer was a little dehydrated and needed to eat, but he couldn’t smell infection. 

“You can turn back around.”

Spike went to her, tapped on her back with one finger, and waited. Buffy gave him a long-suffering look, but turned to show him her back, lifting the red shirt high so he could see her wounds. 

The deepest cut still seeped when he pulled away the makeshift bandage. He put his mouth to it again. Her blood tasted better, but not by much, and he spat into the sink. 

Buffy listened to him tear another strip from his t-shirt. Once he finished redressing the big wound, he didn’t put his tongue against her skin anywhere else. Not that she was disappointed or anything, but his cool mouth had felt good against her skin. The lack of lips probably meant the rest of the cuts were well on their way to healing. When he stepped from behind her, she dropped the red shirt back into place and asked, “All done playing doctor?” When he gave her a pointed look, she reddened. “I didn’t mean it that way!”

Grinning at her over his shoulder, Spike went back to the door. He listened for a moment, then sighed.

Buffy ranged up next to him. “Any idea what time it is?”

He nodded, thought a second, then drew an imaginary circle on the wall and put his finger on one spot just inside.

“Nine o’clock? In the morning?” When he shook his head, her eyes widened. “We’ve been here almost a whole day?” On Spike’s nod, Buffy’s brows drew together. No wonder she was hungry. Shouldn’t Angel have tracked them down last night? Well, maybe the gang decided to go get Giles. Or maybe they’d been waiting for sundown, and the cavalry would ride in soon. That must be it. Nodding at her own thought, she gave Spike a confident look. “We’ll just listen for our rescue party and be ready.” She touched the knife, the one he’d given her, where it rested in her back pocket.

Deciding to be super-ready, she went back and had another drink of water, cupping her hands, then wiping them on the cleaner towel. After that, there was nothing to do but watch Spike pace. Well, maybe prowl was a better word, since he wore the demon face. It was growing on her; she kind of thought he looked feline, like a hairless cat, so ugly it was kind of cute. Probably the overbite, which was sort of endearing.

What she wasn’t expecting was that every so often, he’d make a turn and his shirt would ride up. Spike had a flat tummy with an innie navel framed by chiseled muscle. He’d been ripping pieces off the front hem, and now he essentially wore a crop top. Wonder why no one made crop tops for guys? Because they totally should, at least for muscly guys like Spike.

Her eyes widened. Oh my God, am I scamming on Spike? Buffy closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were averted to the wall where she slept. 

His duster. It had been lumpy when she slept in it, and it was something to do besides watch Spike, which was obviously driving her insane. She stopped leaning against the table and went to it.

“Do you mind if I look through your pockets?” Buffy asked, holding it up.

Spike paused pacing long enough to shrug. The human guards must be the same ones from last night; they’d positioned themselves in one spot and weren’t moving. He still couldn’t hear any conversation.

Buffy found a wad of cash in the first pocket she tried. Wrinkling her nose, she put it back, thinking it must have been from his victims. The next pocket revealed another knife, this one with a single, folding blade. The third pocket had a pack of cigarettes. She could tell by the feel and didn’t pull them out, not wanting to remind him that he could smoke. 

The duster had a load of pockets; she found more cash, a poker chip from some casino with a fancy French name, a pack of cards, a leather-bound book with a heavy fountain pen inside, and yet more cash.

She went back to the pocket with the book and pulled it all the way out, opening it to a random page. Her eyes immediately went to the offset verse in the middle:

Blue and guileless

Her eyes.

Sweet and charming

Her smile.

Demure her pose.

How much more does the lash sting?

Blinking, she looked up. Spike was unconcerned, still prowling around the door. But this was obviously a journal, since it was handwritten. These had to be his words, because it made no sense to carry around someone else’s diary. Her eyes went back to the page.

Bring forth the whip

Anoint me with the holy oil.

Far better that I receive

Punishment you would reserve

For yourself

Your true and blameless self.

Feeling both guilty and disturbed, she closed the book. After watching the vampire for a moment, she cleared her throat. “Spike?” When he stopped moving and turned to her, she held out the journal. “If you need to tell me anything complicated, you can write it in here.”

He came over and crouched next to her, but didn’t take the proffered book, just shook his head.

Buffy looked at his hands, frowning. “Even with the claws, I think you can hold this pen.” She took it from the journal and looked at it; chunky and heavy, it reminded her of the expensive ones her dad had in a holder on his desk. ‘Conway Stewart’ ran along the side of it.

Spike shook his head again. His kind didn’t have a written language, and since William knew so many, there’d never been a reason to try to learn. He could speak English and Portuguese as well as several demon languages, and had learned numbers, symbols for things like exits and directions, and telling time, but that was about it. Pointing to his neck where the needle had gone in, he shook his head.

Buffy went very still. She stared at him, then licked her suddenly dry lips. “You mean… It isn’t just that you can’t talk. You’re literally a demon. Spike’s demon.”

He drew back a few inches, puzzled, and showed a palm. You knew that.

“I-I guess I knew, but I didn’t…” Buffy wanted to scoot away, but made herself stay still under the predator’s gaze. “I… You’re just a demon?”

Scoffing a little at the word ‘just,’ he put out a hand and dropped to the floor, settling himself in cross-legged. He put a hand on his chest and nodded, then touched his forehead, where the ridges were most prominent.

Buffy relaxed as he moved to a less threatening position. “Where is, you know, Spike?”

He frowned before lifting a shoulder. Miming sleep as he had done before, tucking his hands by his cheek, he shrugged again. He hoped that was all there was to it.

Buffy looked down, shaken by this more than she would ever say. Angel was nothing like this. Angel, straight from hell and stripped down to his demon, was… feral. She swallowed and looked up into patient yellow eyes. “You don’t read or write, can’t talk --”

Spike interrupted her with a series of growls. At the end, he repeated one growl and put out his fingers to tap her foot. He made the sound again.

“That’s your language?” Buffy gave him an involuntary grin. “This is kinda cool. I mean, Giles is going to be so jealous.” She tilted her head. “That word means what? Slayer?”

Shaking his head, he touched her hand and repeated the sound.

“That’s the word for Buffy?” When he nodded, she tried to say it. Her attempt made him grin in turn. “What’s your name?” Spike made another growling noise; she could hardly tell it from the first, but it sounded deeper, so she tried to make her voice gruffer as she repeated it.

Spike laughed, delighted with her. She’d called herself the word for ‘sleeping furs,’ but she nearly got the sound right for the male version of ‘mate.’ And he loved hearing it from her lips. He clasped his hands together and shook them in front of first his left, then his right shoulder. Brava.

Buffy’s smile faded, and she looked down at the pen and book she still held in her hands. “Is this Spike’s journal?” When he nodded, she put the pen back inside and tucked the book into the pocket where it belonged.

Smiling as he watched her, Spike was so pleased that she wasn’t going to poke about, instead respecting his privacy. Drusilla mostly didn’t bother, but she had in the early days, taking the journal he’d kept when he was first turned so she could give it to Daddy. That had led to a long series of ‘lessons’ on how to be a proper monster. 

He’d never understood the way Angelus worked. Yes, humans were their prey, but all that was needed was a bite. Killing wasn’t even necessary, especially with all the neat tricks vampires had, like hypnosis and thrall. Spike had never understood Angelus’ fascination with torturing humans. To him, it was… unseemly.

He did understand Angelus’ fascination with Spike, though; all the ‘lessons’ were really attempts to break him. Two alpha males in one nest never worked, not unless they were brothers, and Angelus hadn’t treated him like a brother until years later. If he hadn’t been so in love with Drusilla, he would have left rather than take the pain and the ridicule. But he’d finally proven his worth, just in time for the great git to bugger off.

And now his new mate was expecting Angelus to come to her rescue. He never put himself out for anyone. From what Spike could tell, the soul didn’t make much difference in how the big vampire behaved. Not that it mattered; both he and Buffy were armed, and they’d get their chance with their captors eventually. Curiosity would open the door; they’d want to know if he’d killed his third Slayer.

While he was quiet, Buffy fumbled around until she found the deck of cards. “Do you know any games?”

He nodded; he was good with numbers. Cards were okay, though he preferred dice. On the thought, he reached out and took the coat from her, sure that he had a pair of dice in an inner pocket.

She watched him search for something, then blurted out the question that had been bugging her. “Spike writes poetry?” The demon didn’t even look up, just nodded as he kept looking. Buffy considered this, thinking of the Sunset Club, where Spike called off the whole raid to save Drusilla. He’d found a cure for whatever was wrong with the crazy ho-bag, paid an ungodly amount of money, according to Giles, to hire the Order of Taraka for a few days to keep them busy, and been paralyzed while trying to get Drusilla to safety. And then Dru cheated on him while he was in that wheelchair.

He’d probably written love poems for her unappreciative butt. Buffy almost lamented about the good ones always ending up with girls who were such bitches before she reminded herself that Drusilla and Spike weren’t people.

Her eyes went to the demon as he ransacked his pockets. Although it was hard to believe Spike wasn’t a person. He was so transparent, so… human. Even without speech, he was easy to understand.

Whereas Angel was always a mystery. She’d tried to clear her feelings before coming back to Sunnydale, to understand what Angel meant to her. Buffy wasn’t even sure she liked him, but she’d loved him and definitely had the lusty feelings. He never answered questions about himself, but she always wished he would. She thought she could like him if he did. At least she’d know something about him.

After another minute, Spike sighed and tossed the coat down beside them. Whatever he’d been looking for, he hadn’t found. Buffy gave him a fake sort of smile and held up the cards. “Do you know how to play ‘Go Fish?’?”

After a couple of games, Buffy was bored, so she suggested War. Spike’s face lit up, so she began dealing out the deck. “Do you know, like, every card game?” He shrugged and nodded. “How? I mean, I saw you have a poker chip, but these are kind of kid’s games.”

A corner of his mouth flexed as he thought, then he stood for another round of charades. He looked up at the ceiling, then pretended to cringe away, covering his face. When he sat down, Spike held out his wrist, as if he was looking at the time. Then he looked back up again, then at his wrist before drumming his fingers.

“So, you play cards when you’re stuck inside during the day? Don’t you just sleep?”

He shrugged, unable to think of a way to tell her he didn’t really need all that much sleep.

“What else do you do?” Buffy was almost done dealing out the cards.

Spike leaned back and pretended to hold a book. He held one arm up, high and dramatic, and mimed oratory for a moment.

“So, you read. Aloud?” When Spike nodded, she asked, genuinely curious, “What else?”

Spike leaned over the cards, putting his face near hers, and gave her a sultry look. She wasn’t really sure how he managed that with bumpies and fangs, but he did. Blushing a little, Buffy shoved him away. “And that takes care of two minutes.”

Shaking his head adamantly, Spike pointed at the imaginary wristwatch again and traced a slow circle several times.

Buffy scoffed, but didn’t say anything. Hours? Pfft. She knew from experience that was only bragging. She dealt the last card. “Okay. War. Ready?”

The demon nodded, examining her averted, reddened face. Maybe Spike was right; she was too young for that kind of play. Age or readiness never mattered to Angelus.

The fast-paced game was much more fun, especially for Buffy because she won twice. On the third game, Spike slapped his hand down as she was removing hers, the inadvertent contact just a little too hard.

“Ow!” She pulled her hand back, cradling it.

He was right beside her in less than a second, his hands surrounding hers, his knees scattering the cards. 

Buffy turned her fingers so he could see the little puncture his claw made, a little dome of blood swelling outward. He made a keening sound, both angry and sorrowful, before pulling the finger to his mouth. She looked at it, resting on his full lower lip, framed by his fangs. My life is so weird, she thought, bemused by a vampire kissing a boo-boo to make it better.

But his kiss did make it better. When he let go, her finger was still sore, a little damp, but there was no trace of an injury. “Thanks,” Buffy said.

He squeezed her other hand, then sat back. One of his own fingers promptly went into his mouth. Buffy watched him bite the end off his claw, blunting it, and realized what she’d seen when she first woke up.

Spike was really trying not to hurt her.

He felt her gaze and stopped. Holding out one hand flat, he smacked it sharply with his other, obviously sorry for hurting her. Bad Spike.

“It’s okay, really. I know you didn’t mean it.” She began gathering the cards. “I win, anyway. At least two games out of three.”

After that mishap, he went back to the door to listen. Buffy wondered what time it was, and he pointed to about two a.m. on the imaginary clock on the wall. The night was more than half-gone, and no rescue party. She went to get another drink, hoping the water would fill her empty stomach.

Spike joined her on the floor, looking at her until she wanted to fidget. “What?” She hated this, just wanted out, wanted to have pizza, sleep in her own bed, use a real bathroom, and see her friends.

He pointed at her, then tapped his four upper fingers on his curled-under thumb, a motion mimicking a talking mouth. Then he touched her shirt, his red silk one, before reaching up to touch his hair.

“Red hair?” she guessed. Frowning, she went further. “You want me to talk about Willow?” When he nodded, she made a face. “She’s not really a witch, you know.”

Spike looked surprised. She’d been doing a spell when he found her, and Dru told him why she’d been at the library to kill Kendra. It was obvious she had laid the curse back on Angelus.

“Well, she does a little magic, but she isn’t good at it. When she did the curse, Oz said it looked like she’d been possessed, that she went stiff and didn’t even sound like herself.”

Spike put up a hand and looked puzzled, interrupting her.

“Um, you mean, who’s Oz?” At his nod, Buffy went on. “Oz is Daniel Osborne. He’s Willow’s boyfriend and, uh, a werewolf.” Spike just nodded again. “They’re really cute together. Both of them are, like, super smart.”

When she trailed off, Spike made a wheel motion in the air, urging her to go on.

“Wil is my best friend here in Sunnydale. She’s probably the best friend I’ve had since grade school. I met her when I was trying to avoid making the kind of friends I had back at my high school in L.A., in fact.”

Laying down so his knees were by her shoulders, Spike put his hands behind his head and listened. When he had a question, he touched her ankle and made gestures. It was enough for him to get a clearer picture of her life. Willow had been picked on, it seemed, and Buffy stood up for her. Sounded like his girl; she was a protector to the bone.

It was just her and Joyce in the house, he knew from the scents, but it seemed odd that he still didn’t smell her Watcher’s presence. By far the two most common visitors were the two he’d taken to the factory.

When her narrative about Willow tapered off, he held up three fingers, then pointed to her and touched the shirt. He didn’t have anything brown to point to for the boy’s hair, so he just held up three fingers in query again.

“You mean Xander?” She glared at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “My other friend you kidnapped? He and Willow have been friends since they were little kids. They were kind of a package deal, but Xander’s a good friend, too. He saved my life.”

That sounded like a good story, so he made the circular motion again. Before she finished telling about her encounter with the Master, he was sitting up, his hands clenched.

His mate had been dead, and the only reason she was still alive was because some boffin came up with training to save drowning people. And because the useless brown-haired boy had learned to do it.

Spike’s eyes went wide as another realization dawned. That’s why there were two Slayers.

Buffy had died, permanently enough for the Powers That Be to call a new Slayer. He didn’t think about what her reaction might be; he just needed to touch her, to make sure she was real.

The Slayer found herself in Spike’s tight embrace, his head against hers. When he leaned back, he pulled her onto his lap. She didn’t fight him – not that she could – but her eyes shifted to either side. And I thought my life was weird before. She patted his back awkwardly. “It’s okay. I’m here and everything. You still have a chance to kill me yourself.”

He took her head between his palms lightly and pulled away, shaking his head resolutely. No.

Buffy saw the tears on his cheeks, and her lips parted in surprise. “Spike… Why…” She trailed off. “You’re crying.” 

Stretching, he put a very gentle, very careful kiss on her forehead. With no attempt to cover them, he then wiped his tears away.

“I don’t understand.”

I love you. Oh, he wanted to tell her, but he literally didn’t have the words. Instead, he stroked her face with the back of his hand, ragged-edged claws safely pointed away.

Buffy shied away from his emotion-filled eyes. “I, uh, need to get a drink,” she mumbled. “All that talking.” She pulled away, and he held out his hand to support her as she untangled herself and got up.

Tucking her hair behind one shoulder, she leaned over the sink to drink, completely nonplused. Spike had cried at the thought of her death.

Angel had been there, and he hadn’t been as emotional. With a soul.

But that didn’t mean anything. He’d led Xander to her; it was a rescue operation, just like the one they had to be working on now. 

If they knew where she was.

Surely they knew. Sunnydale wasn’t a large town; Angel or Oz would have been able to sniff her out by now.

Maybe they were waiting until daylight to come in, since vampires had kidnapped them. Angel could ride in the back of Oz’s van with a blanket over him. That had to be it.

Buffy stood up. “Spike?” He was still sitting on the floor, so he propped on an arm and looked over his shoulder. “I need to, you know, with the drain again. Could you go to the door? A-and then I think I’d better sleep some more. So I’ll be fresh when Angel and the gang get here, be ready to help. I-I think I’m getting stronger.”

Spike turned away, then nodded. He rose and went to the door, facing it, sorely tempted to bang his head against it. She was upset with him but being nice, trying to hide it. He’d made her uncomfortable.

But she had been dead!

He needed to curl around her, to know with all his physical senses that she was safe and alive and there. But she wasn’t his, not yet, and his possessive nature wouldn’t hurry it along.


	6. Pierced

Angel went to the library at the high school as soon as the sun set. He hadn’t slept, just sat in an armchair and thought of Buffy, how brave she’d been, how pretty she’d been. She deserved so much better.

Had it been quick, at least? Buffy would certainly fight, so Spike wouldn’t have had an easy time of it. The boy said Drusilla was in South America, but he’d obviously lied. If Spike didn’t snap her neck, then he’d take her to Dru. She’d probably hypnotize Buffy, then slash her throat the way she had the Caribbean Slayer’s; the crazy seer wasn’t imaginative. Then the two of them would have matching kill counts: two Slayers each.

His mind showed him the two of them rutting, ignoring Buffy’s limp body behind them. For a moment, it was his memory of Darla in his own arms and Drusilla the body being ignored. Angel shook his head and trudged onto the Sunnydale High campus.

He was outside the doors when he remembered that Giles was out of town. Well, he did have other, weightier matters on his mind. Angel shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed as he turned to head toward Willow’s house. He didn’t want to breathe in and risk smelling Buffy’s wondrous, lost scent.

Willow wasn’t at her house, either, so he turned back toward downtown. Angel didn’t know where Oz lived, and while he knew the general area where Xander lived and could pinpoint the house by scent, he didn’t want to. The boy had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual.

His feet put him on a path to the Crawford Street mansion. Tomorrow, he’d go to Giles’ house. No, tomorrow was just Saturday; the Watcher was due back from the retreat on Sunday. He could go out to Breaker’s Woods, but that was a long trip by foot, and he didn’t want to alarm the other Watchers. He could give Giles another night of the peace he no longer had, not in a world without Buffy.

***

Joyce got home from the gallery just after noon on Saturday. “Buffy?” she called. No answer. Buffy had spent the night and the day before with Willow – it was a teacher non-contact day; Mr. Giles had gone to some retreat, too, so Buffy had a wide-open day for once. But she thought for sure her daughter would be back home by noon. 

Joyce went to the kitchen and grabbed a quick bite of lunch. She switched into a more comfortable pair of heels before she went back to the gallery. It was a lovely, sunny fall day; maybe that would draw a lot of potential art customers downtown. She’d noted a package of Italian sausage in the refrigerator; she could make spaghetti to go with it for their dinner tonight. Just her and her peanut tonight; maybe they could watch an old movie together.

***

“Willow? Xander, honey? Do you want some sandwiches for lunch?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Harris.” Willow and Xander were both on the floor of his room, having fallen asleep there last night, commiserating over their busted relationships. She had no interest in Xander suddenly. Especially now, when he had matter crusted in the corners of his eyes and half his hair was flattened from sleeping on his side.

“Mom, do we have any Pop-Tarts?”

“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Harris paused by the door. “We have powdered donut holes.”

He looked at Willow, who wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Her face was puffy and still blotchy from crying. He thought fleetingly of Cordelia. He’d never seen her looking less than perfect. And now he never would. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay. Take your time.” Farther in the house, all of them heard Xander’s father grumble about useless kids who laid in bed all day.

Willow slumped back onto her pillow. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it? I mean, Oz isn’t going to stay so mad he won’t even talk to me, right?”

Xander knew he’d blown the single chance he had with Cordelia; she’d never give him another second of her time. But he forced a smile for his friend. “How could he stay mad at you, Wil? And if he doesn’t come around, I’ll talk to him myself.”

***

The sound of growling woke Spike, an odd, muffled rumbling. He leaned away from Buffy – once again, he was wrapped around her, his fangs against her neck, his nose in her hair. Carefully peeling himself from his mate, not wanting to wake her, he listened closely.

The noise came again, and he realized it was from her stomach. She was hungry. He growled himself; there was nothing to kill to bring to her. He had failed to keep her safe; now he was failing again.

His eyes traced her sweet features, the round cheeks, her delicate lashes, the full lips, and her unique little nose. She was so lovely.

And she was so… nice!

Drusilla was many things and probably had been nice at one time, but that had died along with her. Being around Buffy was a revelation. She listened to him – well, as much as he could communicate, anyway. But she seemed to understand him on a deeper level, even limited to hand gestures. And he got her; there was a person behind the title of Slayer.

She smelled so good. When she woke, she would complain about needing a bath, but all her aromas were more concentrated now and so wonderful. The oil glands at her nape smelled different from the ones on top of her head. He wanted to dive nose-first into her cleavage to investigate that divine smell closer. 

And elsewhere. 

Yeah. Time to move away.

When Spike began to shift, Buffy made a faint sound of protest. For a moment, her brows drew together, but they relaxed when he froze. 

Okay, he’d stay. That's what he wanted to do, anyway.

Nuzzling into her neck again, he stopped breathing. That would help. Maybe he could fall asleep and his cockstand would be gone when his mate woke.

***

Buffy rubbed her nose, then frowned because Mr. Gordo must have a loose seam again. Something was tickling her, anyway. Her mom had to use thread and needle to repair the much-loved pig several times over the years, tucking his stuffing back where it belonged.

She opened her eyes to find her nose pressed not against Mr. Gordo’s plush sides but against blond curls.

Bleached blond curls.

Shifting away just a bit, she found that Spike had glommed onto her once again. It was disconcerting, but it didn’t wig her out. He had been more than nice – protective, even – and wasn’t handsy. And, honestly, it made her feel less exposed in the large room that constituted their prison. She guessed he was used to sleeping with someone nearby. 

She had a tiny moment of jealousy, quickly banished, but long enough to resent that cheating cheater who cheats Drusilla got a boyfriend who would be there in the morning, right beside her. Whereas she… well, she didn’t get that.

Distraction from that unpleasant memory came when she realized she was stroking Spike’s soft curls the same way she would pet Mr. Gordo’s velvety sides. She grinned, a little huff of a laugh escaping as she realized why Spike had such a severe hairstyle. He probably hated the curls. And how did he keep his hair so soft? Bleach was majorly harsh. Maybe it was the industrial strength gel.

Which had worn out after… well, however long it had been. Buffy would never have expected they would be held captive so long. She pressed her nose into the softness again. She was worried about Angel, and she let the thought surface. The three of them had been together when they’d been captured. What if Angel had been dusted? 

What else could explain his absence?

She drew in a breath and mentally scolded herself. She’d just got him back. Surely, the Powers That Be wouldn’t rescue him from hell just to let him be dusted by a random vampire.

Except she didn’t have him back.

He looked the same, but things didn’t feel the same.

No need to look too far for a reason. Just as far as Ms. Calendar’s gravestone. Or Giles’ scarred fingers.

Her scars couldn’t be seen, but, oh, they were there.

Spike’s leg jerked. She stilled as he drew in breaths for a minute or so, pushing deeper against her shoulder as he relaxed into sleep again.

Buffy carefully moved her fingers away from his hair. She should be furious with Spike; he’d killed in her town and kidnapped her friends. Why was she letting him live, again?

Because she didn’t currently have the strength to kill him.

He could kill her at any time.

He could have killed her any number of times.

Spike could have grabbed the axe out of her mother’s hands and killed them both that night at the school. She’d gone over it in her mind many times. He hadn’t, though, just retreated. The way he paused to consider her when she became her simpering Halloween costume instead of snapping her neck. His invitation to her house stood, and on Thursday, her mother had served him her special comfort cocoa, as if he was just one of her friends who needed some mothering. 

He came to her with the offer of a truce at one of the lowest, most desperate moments of her life. Because he wanted to save the world.

And save Drusilla. 

Who had dumped him.

Buffy’s face softened. She understood that pain all too well, even if nothing else about the blond vampire made sense. He cried over her death and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, this man – vampire who introduced himself by announcing he’d kill her.

The last time she could remember anyone acting so strange, whose behavior was so bizarrely different one minute to the next was Mateo Alvarez in first grade. He would shove her away from the ladder to the top of the slide or pull her pigtails, and she’d yell at him. But when he’d caused her to scrape her knee when he knocked her down on the concrete walkway where she was trying to play hopscotch, he’d started crying, too. 

When she asked her mother why he was such a poophead, Joyce patted her head and said he probably had a crush on her and didn’t know any other way to get her attention. Which was silly, because he was so mean to her. Still, Buffy hadn’t been totally surprised on St. Valentine’s Day when she was the only first grader who got a two-pound box of chocolates in addition to the usual punch-out valentines. Mateo didn’t put his name on it, but he’d watched her from behind his reading workbook as she opened it. She shared the chocolates with her friends, then took the box to his desk to offer him one. When he shook his head, she told him they were really good, and he’d shyly taken just one and popped it in his mouth.

Buffy’s family had moved to a bigger house in a different neighborhood at the end of the school year. Her mom was brilliant and had enrolled her in a gymnastics class full of other girls the same age, so she had friends when she started her new school. She hadn’t thought of Mateo Alvarez for years.

She realized she was playing with soft blond curls again. No matter what their age, boys were poopheads. Who knew why Spike did the things he did? He probably had no clue, either.

***

Spike woke when Buffy pulled away from him. He turned to face the door as he sat upright, knowing she’d want privacy. The sun had just set. Rolling to his feet, he went to the door and listened. Two distant heartbeats, as usual.

“Spike? Do you have a comb, by any chance?”

He turned to her, finding her running her fingers ruefully through her hair. He reached into his back pocket and brought out a black comb as he walked to meet her near the sink.

She inspected it, surprised it wasn’t clogged with dried gel. He must rinse it after getting his hair set. Buffy started at her scalp and dragged the comb down four inches before it stuck. “Fine-toothed,” she sighed.

Spike held out his hand for the comb, then indicated the floor. Buffy gave him a charry look before handing it over and sitting down cross-legged. She heard him smack his forehead, and then his hand settled on her shoulder, one finger tapping expectantly.

“Go ahead,” she sighed, knowing what he’d forgotten. She lifted his red shirt up so he could see her back. Spike gave a grunt of satisfaction as he checked what had been the deepest wound. He lifted the square of black cotton, then he removed it completely and tugged on the strip of the same material that had held it in place.

“Ready to come off?” Buffy worked on the knot as his careful fingers traced over the other injuries on her back as if over a map. “How does everything look?” A clawed thumbs-up popped into view over her shoulder. Well, no more cool lips of Spike on her skin. Which was totally of the good, of course.

He helped draw the red silk down, covering her back. The scabs would be gone tomorrow at this rate. Spike picked up the comb and started at the ends of her thick blond hair. Once he had it smoothed down, he began a simple three-strand braid at her crown.

She knew immediately what he was doing. “Wow. Thanks.” She started to ask how he learned to do this, but stopped herself before the question got out. Drusilla lacked a reflection; obviously, he’d learned to do this for her, the lucky bitch. When the quick movement of his fingers reached her nape, she held the band she’d used for her ponytail over her shoulder.

Once he’d secured it, she lifted her legs and spun around on her butt to face him. “How does it look?”

Spike pressed all four fingertips to his thumb and brought it to his mouth, kissed them, and splayed them out. Magnifique! Smiling, he reached out and tugged on one of the earrings on the side of her ear.

“Your turn,” Buffy stated, holding out her hand for the comb. 

Spike scowled but handed it over. As she moved to her knees, he sat cross-legged so he’d be lower and easier for her to reach. Then she was grooming him in return, her breath warm on his face as she touched him, just a routine service one mate did for another and all the more special for it.

“I like your curls,” she told him as she worked. “I wish you could tell me how you keep your hair so soft. I mean,” Buffy took a moment to meet his eyes, “I feel pretty confident saying you aren’t a natural blond. I’ve bleached my hair twice, and it was like straw afterwards.”

Spike always filched some poncy shampoo without sulfates when he had the chance, and after every shower, he massaged in a tiny amount of oil, coconut if he could get it, olive oil when he couldn’t. He was even picky about the gel he used to tame the curls, not that he had any way of telling her this.

Besides, it was hard to think with her leaning over him, her bitable, lickable breasts at face level. The shirt was far too big, but the silk was thin and clinging. He was giving in to impulse, leaning forward when she moved suddenly.

“Let me get this wet,” she waved the comb in the air. “I think you still might have enough product in your hair to style it a little.” 

Spike sighed in disappointment, though he knew he should be grateful. Her abrupt movement kept him from temptation.

Buffy smiled a little as she ran the comb under the faucet. That was the sigh of a put-upon, long-suffering man. “Okay,” she announced, “all good. Now, get up on your knees.” She didn’t sit down this time, just moved behind him.

She worked the damp comb through either side first, smoothing those. By the time she was at the top, the water was gone. His curls weren’t flat, but they weren’t riotous, either. “Best I can do.” Because he’d tugged one of her earrings, she tugged the tip of his ear. He looked over his shoulder enough that she could see him grin in understanding. 

Buffy cleared her throat and stepped away, examining him critically. Her eyes strayed downward from his hair. Spike had a nice neck and wide shoulders. The whole of him looked good with the style. “Not bad, if I say so myself. Buffy Summers, stylist to the stars.”

He spun on his knees so she could see him toss his head to the side dramatically, as if swinging out imaginary long locks.

Spike looked… cute, even with his game face, without the severe hairstyle. “Have you ever had your left ear pierced?”

Left ear? He looked puzzled a moment, then he remembered there was some symbolism about gay men piercing one ear or the other. He grinned at her; he’d had piercings everywhere. So he pointed to each earlobe in turn, then along the shell of his ears. His left index finger then went to both brows, his cheek, his nostrils, septum, and lower lip.

Buffy looked down at him, grinning. “You were a real metal head.”

He held up the finger: just wait. Spike curled his tongue behind his fangs for a moment, then laid it across his lip, waggling it a little.

“Did it make you talk funny?” Buffy asked, completely oblivious to the concept of a stud in the tongue as a sexual aid.

Spike shrugged. He’d been pierced repeatedly over the years, mostly by Drusilla. Once Dru had missed the center of his tongue, and he had talked funny, so he just took out the stud so it would heal. Buffy seemed happy with the topic, though, so he lifted his cropped t-shirt high enough to show his nipples.

Buffy blinked. The little peeks she had of his navel when he paced should have prepared her, but his sudden reveal of a pale torso identical to Greek statues froze her. Marble statues didn’t have copper-colored nipples. Their alabaster muscles didn’t ripple as they leaned away to give her a better angle. “You, uh, probably had your belly button pierced, too, huh?”

He gave her a baleful look, missing the way her eyes fixed on his abdomen. Spike was busy with his belt, ready to show her the only other place he’d had pierced.

Eyes flying wide, Buffy swooped in to cover his hands, stopping him. “No, that’s okay,” she blurted. “I get it. No need for show. For show and tell, I mean.” Pulling her hands away from his, she pulled his shirt down and took a couple of steps away. “Not that you can tell right now, or anything.”

This, he didn’t miss. He’d flustered her; her heart rate had sped up and blood flooded tiny capillaries in her face. Spike breathed in. His own eyes grew wide as he got a new scent.

Buffy’s arousal.

He was an immediate addict, and he knew hundreds of ways to get a hit.

None of which he dared use. He slid the end of his belt back through the loop of his jeans and tugged the shirt down as far as it would go.

His mate found him attractive!

He covered his grin by making a production of standing. Not that she was looking, anyway. Buffy had moved to the far side of the metal table, in fact. Spike drew in another deep breath, relishing this new aroma.

It was a start.


	7. Wrestling

“Willow? It’s for you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She skidded out of the dining room on sock feet. “Is it Oz?”

“No. Did you finish cleaning up?”

All the eagerness was gone from her voice. “Yes. All done.” She took the receiver from her mother and leaned against the wall. “Hello?”

“Willow, dear, it’s Joyce. Your mother said Buffy wasn’t there. Do you know where she is?”

“H-hi.” Willow was confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t. She, uh, maybe went on patrol early?”

“She didn’t bring her things home. What time did she leave your house?”

“Um, I think she might be with Cordelia.” It was as good a guess as any to try to keep her friend out of trouble. “She kind of broke up with Xander.” Because of me.

“Oh. When did this happen?”

“Thursday.”

“So, did you get all that confusion sorted out with Spike?”

“Uhh… yeah.” What had happened to Spike? Come to think of it, Buffy hadn’t been with Angel at the factory. Then the really odd thing struck her. “How do you know about Spike?”

“He’s been over a couple of times. Very polite young man, but he seems to have bad taste in women.” Joyce’s voice lowered. “I wouldn’t ask you to break any confidences, dear, but do you know why that horrible Angel person is hanging around Buffy again?”

“I didn’t know he was back in town until just a little while ago myself.” She might have sounded bitter.

“I don’t –” Joyce changed to a different statement, assuming this would all get back to her daughter. “He doesn’t seem very stable to me.”

“Me, either.” Willow had a good idea where Buffy was, and she was suddenly furious. It felt so good to think about anything other than how she’d messed up with Oz. “Let me call around. As soon as I find her, I’ll have her call you, okay?”

She hung up and went to find her parents. “I’m going to go over Xander’s and walk Buffy home. Is it all right if I stay there tonight, since it’s Saturday?”

“Is your homework all done, dumpling?” Ira asked, glancing up from his notes.

“Of course.”

Sheila was shaking her head. “Ms. Summers asked if Buffy was here.”

“She just got home from work. You know how it is with broken families,” Willow said. It was a safe way to head her off the real problem.

Mrs. Rosenberg shook her head again. “Women take such an economic hit after divorce. And an art gallery isn’t the most reliable business, is it, Ira?”

“Selling staple goods would have provided a more stable source of income,” he agreed.

“See you tomorrow,” Willow murmured, leaving them to it. She went up to her room and loaded up with both of her stakes and the large crucifix she hid from her family before heading out to the motel where the other Slayer lived.

***

Spike paced beside the door, throwing occasional glances at Buffy, who was standing by the metal table, playing solitaire. Yeah, the table would do. It was too low for some things and too high for others, but Buffy was motivation to bend his knees or bow his back.

Or the floor. If he folded his coat double, the concrete wouldn’t be so hard and cold. He snuck another look at his Slayer. Or she was welcome to be on top.

Wonder if the sink was securely fixed to the wall? It was just about the right height.

“Spike?” Her voice pulled him out of his reverie. “Are you sure there isn’t a missing card?”

He thought about it, glad to have something to focus on besides his desire to pleasure his mate. His coat was on one end of the table, so he went to check. A moment later, he pulled the ten of clubs from a careful rip in the lining of his left cuff.

Buffy gave him a narrow look before taking the card he held out. “Do you cheat at cards?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, turning his head away to ponder the walls. Maybe.

She snorted and slid it into the pile. “Maybe I can win now. Not that I ever win at solitaire. Not even computer solitaire.” Her stomach growled, and she put a hand down to press against her middle.

Spike leaned over the table and put a hand on her arm. When she looked, he tilted his head to the side, questioning and concerned.

“Just hungry.” Buffy gave a rueful smile. “Guess they didn’t figure I’d need any food.” Her eyes dropped before fixing on his. “How about you?”

He touched his own tummy and shrugged. 

“Do you think Willow and Xander got loose?”

Spike rolled his eyes and nodded, sighing. He halfway turned to point at the door and shook his head emphatically.

“They weren’t locked in?”

Shaking his head once more, Spike turned and took a few steps reminiscent of the Frankenstein’s monster from old movies. He described some zigzags over his head, then hooked his fingers to make little fangs and held them in front of his own.

“He did know where they were,” Buffy agreed. She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t smile at the blond vampire’s description of Angel.

Spike gestured at her, then pretended to inject something high into one arm.

“I-I think it’s wearing off. I don’t feel shaky, anyway.”

He smiled and found a spot free of cards on the table to set his elbow, hand in the air.

“You want to arm wrestle?” He nodded, making Buffy scoff. “Sure you do. The only time you could win.”

Spike seesawed his hand. Maybe, maybe not. Then he set his arm again.

She couldn’t keep from grinning. “Okay. Enjoy it while it lasts, Mr. the Bloody.” Buffy swept the cards aside – she wasn’t going to win this game of solitaire, either – and clasped his hand. Spike scooted to one side to compensate for his longer forearm. Settling her palm against his, she curled her fingers and took a breath before heaving. “Uhhhnhh…” His arm didn’t move. Buffy let out her breath. “A little stronger. Maybe human guy strong.”

Instead of slamming her arm down, Spike stayed still. The Slayer got a gleam in her eye and grabbed their joined hands with her free one to try again. Then, just to make him smile, she braced a foot against the table, put her back into it, and gave it a third attempt.

He let out a huff of amusement at her antics. She was a fiery little thing.

“Go ahead,” she said, blowing aside a strand of hair that escaped her braid. Spike just shook his head, maintaining the position of their arms. “No, you win.”

He shook his head again, his laughing smile fading into something warmer.

Buffy stared into inhuman yellow eyes that still held so much emotion. Her own expression grew serious. “Why not?” Her voice was quiet and a little husky.

Spike’s thumb caressed the side of her hand. He lifted his other hand to show two fingers side-by-side. He didn’t want to defeat her; he wanted to stand side-by-side with this splendid creature. Only that way would they both win.

Her hazel eyes grew wider, going from his fingers back to his face. “Because we’re stronger together?” That’s what he’d said before, but somehow she knew he meant something more this time.

His head went to the side as he examined her, then he reached out to stroke her cheek. Buffy went still for a moment. Then she leaned into his touch, just a little.

Their eyes were locked for several seconds. Buffy drew in a gasp, remembering to breathe. “I, uh. Water. I mean,” she took her hand away and pressed the stray hair against her scalp, “I’m going to get a drink.”

Spike gave her a curt nod and went back to the door, berating himself. Quit pushing, he warned himself. She gets strong enough, it won’t matter that the handle of that hammer isn’t pointed, just that it’s wooden.

***

Willow trudged away from Faith’s motel room toward the pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. She had banged on the door and then sat on the concrete divider in the empty slot out front for half an hour. One of Faith’s neighbors was a man in his fifties who found some reason to go in and out of his room four times, his eyes trained on her each time he walked past. Her nerves couldn’t manage a trek across Sunnydale. Willow dropped in her quarter and dialed.

“Hi. Mrs. Summers? It’s Willow. Could you come pick me up?”

“Sure. Is Buffy with you?”

“No… She isn’t with Cordelia. I think I know where she is, and I don’t…” Oh, this was a terrible idea. If Angel wasn’t safe for her, how would having Mrs. Summers along help?

“She’s with that Angel, isn’t she?” Joyce sounded both angry and resigned.

“That’s what I’m worried about, yeah.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“I do.”

“Let me get my shoes and purse, and I’ll be right there. Where are you, dear?”

Willow went back to her spot in front of Faith’s door to wait. If the other Slayer showed up, that would be great. She kind of wanted to cry right now; her first thought was to call Oz instead of Mrs. Summers, but she figured he didn’t want to see her at all. It’s not like it was a real emergency. If Angel was Angelus, well, Buffy had killed him before. And Willow didn’t really think Buffy would ever sleep with him again. But she would ignore common sense and spend time with him.

She felt a little stir of guilt. She should have remembered that Buffy was supposed to stay over. Maybe she came by and went to Angel’s when she saw Willow wasn’t home. But she had problems, too, and didn’t want to tell Buffy the story of what happened. Xander already knew – he was the only one who knew exactly what she was feeling, in fact. Not that they provided much comfort to each other.

***

Buffy laid out her fourteenth game of solitaire and glanced surreptitiously at Spike. He sat with his back against the door, his knees drawn up and his eyes closed. His hands rested on his knees. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was asleep.

She took a jack of hearts from the pile and discarded it; no way to play it the way the cards were dealt. Buffy sent another look at the still figure, trying to figure out what the hell happened. 

Okay, so, she enjoyed being around Spike – this silent version of him, anyway. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, not really. Not in here, where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

Where he chose not to hurt her.

She discarded another three cards, two of which she could have played, but her mind wasn’t on the game. Why wasn’t he trying to drain her? He was feral, more than Angel had been, because Angel still had his soul. Spike was evil. He did evil things.

And he helped save the world. He only did it out of love, but at least he had a better reason than duty. When she stuck the sword into Angel, it wasn’t because she loved her friends and her mom; it was because she finally had run out of chances to give him. She had no other choice.

Buffy glanced at Spike again, remembering the feel of his hand on her cheek. It wasn’t a particularly intimate gesture, but something in it made her bloom with warmth inside. Or maybe it wasn’t in his touch. Maybe it was what she could see in his eyes.

Which was impossible. Vampires weren’t tender. They couldn’t care.

Except he did. Spike loved Drusilla. She wasn’t loving or pleasant or even sane, but he loved her. He’d taken care of her for more than a hundred years. 

He loved better than most humans, and he killed and fed off people. He was a contradiction that was going to drive her as crazy as Dru. 

She really needed to get out of here and away from this… cuddly, sweet Spike so she could think straight. Buffy took the five of diamonds from the pile and discarded it. And some pizza would be nice, too. Or tacos. Tacos would be perfect.

***

Joyce didn’t get out of the Jeep when she pulled into the lot and stopped crossways, just leaned over to open the door. She cast a judgmental eye over the motel. “Hop in, dear.”

“Thanks for coming, Mrs. Summers.”

“Anytime you need a ride, just call.” She waited as Willow buckled in. “Is this where Faith is living?” When the girl nodded, her mouth thinned. “This is no place for a young lady.” She focused her attention on her daughter’s friend. There was brief silence, then she almost barked, “Well? Where is he?”

Finally realizing that Buffy’s mom was really angry, Willow swallowed. “Crawford Street. I don’t know the number, but I can point it out.”

Joyce pulled out. She navigated out to the main road, then sent Willow a sidelong look. “Buffy wasn’t with you last night, was she?”

“No,” Willow admitted. “Honestly, I forgot that she was supposed to.” She looked down, her hair falling from behind her ear and across her face. “Oz kind of broke up with me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Willow. He seems nice – I mean, he doesn’t say much, but he was always so polite.”

“He is,” she agreed quietly, “nice and polite and really sweet.”

“What happened? If you want to talk about it, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Willow wailed. “I mean, I know what happened. I just don’t know why.”

“We don’t have to talk,” Joyce soothed, alarmed.

“I kissed Xander,” she blurted.

“You kissed Xander?” 

“I didn’t mean to! I mean, we’ve been friends since we were kids, and, yeah, I did have a crush on him. Since we were kids. But I have a boyfriend now! And he has a girlfriend.” She made a face. “Cordelia Chase. So I don’t know why all of the sudden he liked me back! Or, or why I wanted to kiss him when I had Oz. Oz kisses are the best! I wanted Oz kisses!”

Joyce reached out blindly and patted Willow’s shoulder. “The old forbidden fruit?” she asked sympathetically.

“I guess.” Willow sounded miserable. “It doesn’t make any sense. Oz saw, and I don’t know if he’ll every forgive me. And Cordelia saw, too, and you know she’ll never forgive Xander.”

“And you don’t want to kiss Xander anymore?”

“No. All the lusties shut off like a light.” She sent Mrs. Summers a guilty look; she didn’t mean to use ‘lusties’ in front of an adult. Willow sniffled. “I’m sorry to dump on you.”

“No, dear. You can dump all you want. I’m happy to listen.”

“I think it’s the same with Buffy, you know? The old forbidden fruit.” She pressed her sleeve against her damp eyes. “The really old forbidden fruit.”

“Here’s Crawford,” Joyce said in such a pleasant, even tone that it almost sent chills down Willow’s spine. Not for the first time, she wondered how much of Buffy’s scariness came from being the Slayer and how much came from her mother. “Which house?”

“The, uh, mansion.” 

“Of course it is,” Joyce sighed. She parked and got out.

Before she could close her door, Willow leaned over the driver’s seat. “I have a stake you can borrow.”

“No need.” Joyce closed the driver’s door and opened the one behind it. She withdrew a long-handled axe from the floorboards. “Spike gave me some pointers for the next time.”

Willow’s eyes grew wide as she watched Mrs. Summers hoist the tool over her shoulder. Wait, Spike had given her pointers? She scrambled to undo the seatbelt and grabbed her bag, hurrying after the determined woman.

***

Angel didn’t pay attention to the motor shutting off or the car doors closing out on the street, but the sense of two humans coming to his door made him lift his head. He sighed. They were back. Wasn’t it late for the Mormon missionaries? Well, he wasn’t going to answer. He was in mourning. Angel sat slumped on the couch, waiting for the knock, waiting for the sound of retreating footsteps.

Instead, someone threw open the door and marched in. A second set of lighter footsteps followed.

Joyce took in the bare walls and floor with narrowed eyes, then turned toward the left, where the lights were on. She found Angel standing in front of an unlit fireplace, facing her with a knife in his hand.

“Joyce?”

“Mrs. Summers,” she corrected frostily, unslinging the axe from her shoulder and holding it with two hands and intent.

“Hey, Angel,” Willow said, placatory even though she had a stake in one hand and a crucifix in the other.

“Where is she?” Joyce’s voice was very nearly a snarl.

“Buffy?” He cursed himself for a fool and sighed. He should have told her mother, but it never occurred to him. Angel tossed the knife toward the hearth. He took a couple of steps closer to the humans, his hands raised in a soothing manner. “I don’t know where she is, but –” 

“The last time I saw her, she was with you.”

He couldn’t deny the accusation. “Spike took her.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Listen, maybe you should sit down.”

She lifted the axe a few inches higher. “Maybe you should answer my question.”

“Buffy’s dead.”

“What?” Joyce spat. 

Beside her, Willow drew in a sharp, shocked breath. “What do you mean, she’s dead?”

He sat on the couch himself, his wide shoulders sagging. “Spike. He took her. That’s what he does, isn’t it? Kills Slayers.”

Joyce regarded him for a long moment through narrow eyes. “That’s ridiculous. I know Spike. He’s a vampire, sure, but he’s a friend.”

“No, he isn’t,” Willow said miserably. Her eyes had welled with tears again.

Joyce looked down at her, starting to feel cold. She dropped the head of the axe to the floor and leaned on the handle, needing the support. “Angel. You listen to me. Don’t tell me what you think. Tell me exactly what happened after you left my house.”

He heaved a sigh and looked at the floor as he told the story of the attack outside the magic store, how it moved inside, and that Spike pretended he was going back to Brazil. “He must have attacked me as soon as I walked outside the store, because I woke up on the ground right in front of the door. Buffy’s blood was on the ground, too. I followed the trail to the curb, but it ended. He took her away in a car.”

Willow was staring at him. “You didn’t tell us any of this,” she said, bewildered. “I mean… that was two nights ago!”

“Neither of you has seen my daughter since Thursday night,” Joyce said in a dead voice.

“Well,” Angel corrected, “early on Friday morning.”

“And you’re sure it was Spike who knocked you out? Not the gang of vampires who outnumbered you all so much you had to run inside to get away from them?”

“I… What?”

“Spike went from fighting alongside you to knocking you out in the space of a minute?” Joyce raised her eyebrows. “You said the deputy mayor sent them. The actual mayor’s office or some kind of demon version?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Joyce said sharply, making him wince. “But you know that my daughter is dead.”

“I-I don’t believe Buffy is dead,” Willow said, having digested this story, “but I think she has to be in trouble.” Her brows drew together as she thought through it. “It makes sense Spike has her, Mrs. Summers. He did kidnap me and Xander.”

She shook her head; this was all too much for her, on top of this idiot scaring her half to death by saying that Buffy was dead with absolutely no evidence. “Right now, I’m going to say it’s time to call the police, and you two are going to tell me that they can’t help.”

Willow exchanged a hesitant glance with the big vampire. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Summers. They really can’t.”

Joyce sighed. “All right. Willow, let’s go see Mr. Giles.” 

“He’s out of town, remember?”

She closed her eyes. “No, I had forgotten.” She opened her eyes and drew in a breath. “Tell me what happened again. Every detail. Don’t leave out anything.”

Angel tried his hardest, wanting to give Joyce any comfort he could. He understood that she was in denial. When he got to the part about the vampire who was trying to stake him, Willow interrupted.

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“I didn’t think of it.”

Joyce’s jaw jutted out. “You didn’t think it was important that a vampire was attacking you? That the vampire might be connected with Buffy’s disappearance?”

Willow’s brain was whirring. “Slayerfest,” she whispered. A frown of concentration on her face, she took a step toward Angel. “Spike went out first. Could they have staked him?”

Angel shook his head reluctantly. “As happy as that would make me, I would have smelled his dust. I’m telling you, both his scent and Buffy’s disappeared at the sidewalk.”

“You said the vampires were after Spike. Could they have taken both him and Buffy?”

He shook his head. “Why would they take her, too?”

“Oh, because she’s the Slayer?” Joyce suggested, looking at him with contempt. “Anything else?”

Angel’s expression grew muddy. He was tired of the way she was treating him and beyond tired of her defense of William the Bloody. “I went to the factory where Spike had caged Buffy’s friends.”

When Joyce turned her angry eyes on Willow, the girl made a little face. “We weren’t in a cage or anything. I was just afraid to leave Xander, afraid he’d go to sleep. When he tried to fight Spike, Spike hit him in the head with a microscope. You’re supposed to keep people awake after head injuries.”

Joyce lifted a hand to stop her babbled explanation. She needed to be alone, to process this. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she managed, not quite looking at her daughter’s stalker.

Angel stood up. “Jo– Mrs. Summers, I know you don’t like me. I… I haven’t given you any reason to. But I loved Buffy. I just wanted to tell you that I plan to leave town. I can’t stay here. You won’t have to see me after this.”

Joyce stared at him. Beside her, Willow’s jaw dropped. When she finally spoke, it was in her best mother’s brook-no-disobedience tone. “You’ll stay right here in Sunnydale until we find Buffy. We might need to ask you more questions.”

“We might need your help,” Willow added softly, willing him to meet her eyes. He didn’t, just stood by the couch, a picture of pure grief.

The two women walked back to the Jeep in silence. Willow was ready to go by the time Joyce stowed her axe and got the SUV started.

“If something happens to Buffy because he didn’t even bother telling anyone she was missing,” Joyce said in a brittle voice, “I’m going to come back here and burn his house down with him inside.” She turned to Willow. “You can uninvite a vampire, can’t you?” When the redhead nodded, she did, too. “Good. I’d like for you to do that for me.” Taking a deep, settling breath, she forced a smile. “Now, can I drop you at your house?”

“I-I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.” She shrugged and pulled an unhappy face. “My parents don’t know, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

This time, Joyce’s smile was genuine. “I don’t think I can, either. I’d love the company.”

“And tomorrow Giles will be back,” Willow said, wanting to be encouraging. “He’ll know what to do.”


	8. What Dreams May Come

Joyce woke on the couch just before nine o’clock on Sunday morning. She couldn’t believe she’d slept at all, but sometime after four a.m., it had been too much for her tired body. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Summers,” Willow said, walking carefully into the living room as she balanced a too-full cup of coffee. 

“Good morning, dear.” She sat up and tried to smooth her hair.

“I called Xander. He’ll be over as quick as he can. He wants to help, too.” She handed over the coffee and gave Buffy’s mother a game smile. “I already showered. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine. Thank you for the coffee.” She took a sip and made a face; it was very strong. 

By the time Xander arrived, Joyce had showered, too, and put out a quick breakfast of cut fruit and toast. Willow had gathered her supplies and was ready to do the disinvite spell.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile, “some sage, some words, and no more Spike.”

“Spike?” Joyce echoed. “I’m not worried about him. I want you to disinvite Angel.”

Since Willow was speechless, Xander stepped in. “Can you do both?”

Joyce closed her eyes for a moment. “I understand why you’re angry with him,” she said, “and I plan to have a long talk with Spike about what he did, but he’s not the dangerous one here. Angel is.”

“I-I could do it a second time for Spike,” Willow countered, exchanging a glance with Xander. She’d do both disinvites at once if she had more confidence in her skills.

“Just… Don’t worry about it right now,” Joyce said, sounding exasperated. “Angel first.”

Willow walked through the house as she chanted. It did take longer than she remembered. Xander watched her, then turned to Buffy’s mother. “How did he get in?”

“Buffy invited him.” A dark look crossed her face. “We’ll be talking about that, too.”

“When we find her,” he agreed, trying to be reassuring.

It was almost eleven before Willow finished. “Use the restroom before we go,” Joyce advised, gathering her purse and keys. They were going to wait in the parking lot of Giles’ apartment building until he arrived, but no one knew exactly when he would return.

***

Buffy yawned before she even opened her eyes. Her stomach hurt because she was hungry, her back hurt because this was the third day of sleeping on a concrete floor, and right now she would wrestle Machida for a bar of soap.

Could she wrestle the snake demon? She gripped her blanket in her hand and decided that, yeah, maybe in a little while she could. Even without testing further, she felt almost normal.

Then she realized that she didn’t have a blanket in prison and opened her eyes. A handful of Spike’s t-shirt was in her grasp. She let go and smoothed it down along his back. He had migrated to her side, which she expected by now. Instead of pressing his nose in her hair, this time he rested his head on her hip and had his arm over her thighs. 

And he was purring.

Buffy moved slowly to lift her head and prop up on her free arm. It didn’t sound fast like a kitten, but every time he breathed out, Spike made a low ‘rrrr’ noise in his throat. It definitely wasn’t snoring; her dad had snored. He didn’t breathe as much as a human – though he practically did, compared to most vampires; Buffy figured he needed so much air because he ran his mouth constantly – so it wasn’t quite rhythmic. It was a soothing sound, though.

Rrrrrr. Buffy smiled at her enemy, who cuddled with her when he was asleep and purred. She could see his eyes moving beneath his lids, and she strongly suspected he had drooled on her a little where the overbite from his fangs didn’t quite let his lips close. The arm he had across her thighs tightened for a second, and she wondered if he was dreaming.

She got her answer almost immediately. Instead of another purr sound, Spike growled. But it was more than a growl; it was her name. Buffy was sure of it; he’d made it several times when he needed her attention.

He was dreaming of her?

Probably of killing her. Her mouth firmed and she was about to wake him when he did something else animal-like: he rolled his hips so that he rubbed against the side of her knee.

With his… parts.

William the Bloody had just humped her leg in his sleep.

While he was dreaming.

About her.

Oh, God. Spike was having a sex dream about her?

Buffy grew tense, and it seemed to wake Spike a little. He drew in a breath as he tightened his grip on her legs and let out a final purr.

“Spike.”

The word was quiet and clipped, rousing him enough to move. He slid his face along her hip, pushing against her – there was no other word – crotch.

Buffy froze, her face flooding with heat. How was she supposed to get out of this with a shred of dignity left? They were stuck in here together for who knew how long, and it would be beyond awkward if he woke up.

Before she could think of a clever way to do it, Spike began to lick her. There!

Buffy smacked her palm against his head and shoved. The question of whether her strength was back was answered when Spike ended up a good four feet away.

In some small fraction of a second later, he was awake and snarling, looking around warily from a defensive crouch, which was bloody painful because he had morning wood which did not bend all that much.

Something hit him, woke him.

His eyes landed on Buffy, who was sitting up with her legs straight out. Not something. Someone.

He’d been having a wonderful dream of tasting his mate, then he’d been attack–

Spike eyes widened beneath the arched brows as he met Buffy’s equally wide eyes. His mate was looking at him with something like horror. He put out a placating hand. It was just a dream. Right?

Only… it was hard to tell, but that looked like a wet spot at the apex of her thighs.

“Spike,” she said, soft and dangerous, drawing his eyes back to her face, “what was that?”

He put his hand over his eyes. He’d lost control and done something in his soddin’ sleep! Spike drew in a breath and carefully moved from a crouch to his knees, holding out both palms to her to show he meant no harm.

Not knowing how to signal ‘dream,’ he tapped his head, then used the pantomime for sleep he’d used before, prayerful hands with his head tilted on top of them. Tapping his forehead with a finger again, he shrugged and let his hands fall to his thighs.

Buffy examined the vampire who knelt before her, looking miserable. She licked her lips, then stood up. All she wanted to do was run away, but they were stuck in a room together. So, pretend nothing happened. Avoidance was of the good. “I, uh, could you go to the door?”

He nodded, his face averted. Inside, he was berating himself. His human side was right; she wasn’t ready for a creature like him and might never be. Spike went as far away as he could, leaning his head against the door, castigating himself for sleeping when he knew his control was at a low ebb.

Buffy peed, then went to the sink to run water over her hands, cleaning them as best she could before cupping them to drink. She used the pad of her index finger as a brush, swiping it over her teeth before taking more water to rinse. She spat and washed her hands a final time.

The whole time, her brain was screaming at her: ‘Spike went down on me!’ Twice. She felt his tongue move twice before her hand got the message and shoved him away.

She was locked in a prison cell with the Slayer of Slayers. He hadn’t killed her. He set her free from her chains. He had to be as hungry as she was, yet in his sleep, he hadn’t tried to feed from her. No, he tried to give her an orgasm.

Angel had not.

Buffy threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The blond vampire had his head and one hand against the door, for all the world as though he was as eager to escape the awkward as she was.

How much longer were they trapped here? How many more times would they end up falling asleep?

After drying her hands absently, Buffy put the towel back on the rack, straightening it until it hung perfectly. Which took ten seconds, if she was being generous. Oh, crap. Pretending wasn’t going to work. Buffy swallowed. Her throat was dry again, so she got another drink.

“Spike?”

His shoulders tensed, then he squared them and turned to face her. He leaned against the door so he would look smaller and less intimidating. She was standing on his side of the table, at least.

“You were having a dream. I get it.” She watched him close his eyes in relief before nodding vigorously. “But there’s one thing…” She trailed off. 

“You said my name. In your sleep.” She looked at his bowed head, at the unruly platinum curls. Her mouth felt dry once more. “Were you dreaming about me?”

Spike’s head drew back, and his expression grew indignant. Who else would he dream about? He nodded again, just as vigorous.

“Why?”

And here it was, the moment he had hoped for, the moment his human had been denying and dreading. Spike drew in a breath and once again went to his knees before her. He studied her; he’d been studying Slayers for decades. Buffy looked like she would be running away, if she could.

Spike swallowed, then covered his unbeating heart with both hands. He held them out to her, cupped.

You have my heart.

Her lovely jade eyes, wide already, were enormous as she stared at him. While she panicked – and he could feel her panic with all his senses – he felt at peace. She knew. The next move was hers, but it always had been. His human side would have said the ball was in her court. Well, at least now she’d know there was a game.

***

Rupert pulled into his parking space and sighed. He’d had lunch with the Watcher from Vancouver, a sturdy woman in her fifties. He wasn’t completely sure, but he thought she had been flirting with him. An uncomfortable thought, but at least he was fed, one less thing to do. He had laundry at the top of the list of things to get done before going back to work on Monday.

The moment he stuck a leg out of the Citroen, someone started honking their horn. “Oh, I say,” he muttered. He glanced over before heading to the boot and saw Willow and Xander waving frantically at him from the passenger side windows of an SUV.

“It’s Buffy,” Willow said.

“She’s missing.” Xander opened his door and hopped out from the back seat, stretching.

“Missing?” Giles echoed, walking toward the other car. He spotted Joyce Summers in the driver’s seat, and his steps faltered. “Er, hullo, Jo– Mrs. Summers.” He had a Technicolor memory of the way she smiled up him with her hair spread over the bonnet of a police car, then a second memory of her smirk as she snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

She gave him an impatient smile, knowing where his mind had gone. “Joyce is fine.”

“Er, rather. Joyce.” He rubbed his brow. “Missing, you say?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Willow said, hanging partway out of the window, “but we went there, and she isn’t. There, I mean.”

“Fangboy thinks she’s dead,” Xander said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously, Spike kidnapped her, too.”

“Kidnapped?” Giles echoed in a sharp tone. “Spike?”

“It wasn’t Spike,” Joyce said, rolling her own eyes. “Rupert, are you going to ask us in?”

“Of course,” he said automatically. He felt terribly discombobulated, but it didn’t keep a crafty gleam from his eye. He turned to Xander. “If you and Willow would be so kind as to help me unpack the car…?”

***

“But… you hate me.” Her lips felt as numb as the rest of her.

Spike shook his head adamantly.

Buffy took a step back. “No, that’s how it works. You hate me, I hate you. We fight. We’re enemies.” He gave her such a sorrowful look that she backtracked. “I mean, not right now. We have a truce.”

He gave her a tentative smile and held up his hand, two fingers together. 

Buffy nodded. “But… that’s just in here, right?”

Spike, still on his knees, shuffled closer to her, keeping his eyes on her. Very deliberately, he shook his head.

“When you’re… you again, this all goes away.”

His eyes widened in realization, and he shook his head vehemently. Covering his heart with his hands, he mimed offering it to her again. Buffy didn’t move, just stared at him.

His hands dropped to his sides, the wide shoulders slumping. The hope in his eyes dimmed, and he lowered his head. Despite his best efforts, a slight whine of hurt escaped his throat.

Buffy felt sympathy well up in her at his obvious misery. She put her hand out and stroked his soft hair. Spike went still for a moment, then nuzzled into Buffy’s hand, pressing closer. Careful of his claws, he reached for her other hand.

She hadn’t flatly said no. She hadn’t brought up the fact that he was a vampire. She just didn’t think Spike loved her, that this was fleeting. 

Spike never once thought he had a chance with this shining warrior, part of the reason he remained so firmly in denial. Why acknowledge a love that would never be returned? Better to seethe about her continuing existence and keep trying to be what his family molded him to be.

Before he could try any other simple gestures to communicate complicated thoughts, his head whipped around to the wall with the door. Spike let go and was on his feet immediately, a finger to his lips.

Buffy looked at the door, too. She couldn’t hear anything.

Spike listened, then held up two fingers. Buffy nodded at him; right, two guards were coming to the door. 

His eyes darted around the room, trying to come up with a plan. Spike flashed to the table and grabbed the hammer, handing it to Buffy. Bending to pick up his duster from the floor, he gave that to her as well. When her brows drew together in confusion, he motioned to the floor and mimed covering her head.

Buffy frowned as she thought it through. Spike wanted the guards to see one person on the floor. With his duster over her, they couldn’t be sure who it was without coming in. She pointed at him. Where was he going to be?

Spike glanced over his shoulder and held up two fingers again. He hesitated for just a second, then put his hand over his heart, tapping it in a one-two rhythm.

Buffy’s brows rose. Their guards were human? But they’d been under attack by vampires! 

Spike clenched his jaw before leaning close to take her by the upper arms and plant a kiss on her forehead. Be careful, my mate, be safe. He let go of her, then let out his breath and went to the wall beside the door. With another urgent look, he gestured at the floor again.

And then he climbed the wall, clinging to it like an insect.

Buffy goggled at him for a precious couple of seconds. Spike could do that? He was over the door itself now, and she could hear voices. Quickly, she dropped to the floor with her head toward it, the hammer in one hand. With the other, she shifted Spike’s fixed-blade knife from its place in her waistband, thumbing the leather loop from the guard. She laid it on the floor so she could pull the duster over her head. Sparing one last look at where Spike was poised above the exit, she reclaimed the knife.

“…one sound,” a man’s voice said, “much less screams. What if she killed him?”

“He kills Slayers,” said a second, much calmer voice. “He probably just drained her and is sleeping it off.”

“But you’re with me, right? We need to make sure they’re still there before Mr. Trick gets here. And it’s not like it will matter; when we close the door, it will just reset the spell to lock it from the inside.”

The second voice wasn’t so calm this time. “That Mr. Trick isn’t anyone I want to disappoint. You check; I’ll cover you.”

“You worry about Trick. It’s Mayor Wilkins who scares the crap out me.” The doorknob rattled. “Ready?”

***

Rupert was trying to do several things at once: get a clear idea of what had been happening since he left, field questions from two excitable teenagers, gather basic spell supplies, and make sure the books he’d taken to the retreat found their way back to the proper place on the shelves. Consequently, he wasn’t getting anything done.

“And Angel didn’t tell you?” He had already asked this.

“No,” Joyce replied coolly. “He just wrote her off.”

“Like he did with the prophecy,” Xander said, his voice bright with dislike, “just gave up.”

“Prophecy?” Joyce echoed.

“I had to use a cross to make him help me find her.”

Joyce got a thoughtful expression on her face. “Crosses burn vampires, don’t they?” Giles gave her a sharp look. She shrugged. “My baby’s been missing for three days now, two of which were wasted, thanks to him.”

“And you said Spike is back in town?”

Joyce whirled around abruptly and let her head fall back. She might as well have counted to ten aloud. When she faced the three of them again, her jaw was tight. “That sad young man did not come here to hurt my daughter. He’s confused and hurting right now, not at all like he was when I hit him with that fire axe. And he’s never been less than polite to me.

“Angel has always made me feel, as much as I hate to admit it, afraid. There’s something about him that terrifies me. But he doesn’t know where Buffy is – or care, from the look of it. Can we stop worrying about the two vampires who don’t have my daughter and start looking for her?”

Her voice was a shout by the time she finished her tirade. Willow took a step closer and put a comforting hand on her arm. “We’ll find her, Mrs. Summers.”

Giles set down the two books he held against his chest. “We can try a locator spell to see where she is. We need something of hers. Hair is the usual ingredient. Do you have her hairbrush?”

“No.” Joyce looked pained, as if she should have known to have that, and now the delay was on her.

“Why don’t we go back to your house?” Xander suggested, his voice quiet. “That’s probably where she’ll go, right? She knows you had the retreat this weekend.” He looked at Giles for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Posthaste.” He got the map and box of pushpins already collected. “Just a few ingredients to gather, and we’ll do the spell at your house.”

“Thank you,” Joyce said, closing her eyes.


	9. So Close

The door to the prison for one Slayer and one vampire swung open.

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell,” came the answer to the nervous whisper of the other guard. “But there’s just one. 

“Has to be the Slayer, then. The vamp must be dust.”

“That’s his coat, though. I saw him at Willy’s once.”

“Too small to be him.” The first guard took a shallow breath. “She ain’t moving. Go on, check.”

“Shit!” he hissed. “I’m not going in there. You do it.”

“Fine,” came the disgusted answer.

Buffy could hear a rustle of cloth and a soft sound of metal against leather, like a weapon being sheathed. She wished she could see farther than the three feet of concrete in front of her. The footsteps were approaching now.

Above the door, Spike could just see a human’s hand and nose as the guard edged closer. His eyes were fixed on the leather-covered mound on the floor. Another step closer, and now he could tell the git wasn’t holding a weapon.

Which meant the one who chose to stay outside was armed. He could smell gun oil and a faint trace of cordite. Being shot was not fun for a vampire, but he absolutely couldn’t allow gunfire around Buffy. He waited; two more steps should do it.

Now the Slayer could see shoes as the guard approached. They were shiny black business shoes, which surprised her. Spike said the guards were human, though. Something about those brogues seemed familiar… The guard came closer, and it clicked. They looked like the kind of shoes a police officer might wear.

As soon as the guard was inside far enough, Spike stopped clinging to the wall. He dropped his hands to grip the top of the doorframe. Swinging his body through the center of the door, he targeted the sound of the other guard’s heartbeat, hitting him square in the chest with both of his heavy Doc Marten boots. As Spike drove into him with the momentum of his full body weight, the pistol he held in his hand barked once, tearing into the vampire’s upper arm.

Buffy saw the guard’s feet pivot as they both heard a panicked cry, a gunshot, and a snarl. She threw the duster behind her as she surged to her feet, taking advantage of his distraction to cuff the side of his head with the wooden handle of the hammer, trying not to hit the human too hard. As he went down, she got a look at what was going on in the hallway.

Spike had his fangs in the guard’s neck and was pinning him to the wall by either wrist. The man’s right hand was little more than meat; she assumed that was the one he’d used to hold the gun. Before she could protest or say anything, Spike pulled away from the weakly struggling man and head-butted him.

He turned, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand, to find Buffy staring at him, then at the unconscious guard, her eyes wide.

“You’re shot,” she said, her now fixed on his arm. A trickle of blood trailed down to his elbow, where it had pooled and gone in different directions.

Spike lifted his left arm to check for an exit wound. He used his right hand to give her a slightly awkward thumbs-up. Then his own eyes grew wide with fear.

Even before he gestured for her to fall to the side, Buffy had read his expression and was moving, dropping straight down. She heard the guard behind her, who had recovered way earlier than she expected. She had time to wonder if she pulled her strike too much, then the loud report of a revolver pounded against her ears. Buffy spun on her backside, swiveling her head away from the guard so she could see him, getting her feet ready to sweep his braced legs. The barrel of his gun dropped so that it pointed right at her face. Spike snarled, and the guard jerked, now aiming at the vampire in the hallway.

“Wooden bullets, you son of a –”

And Spike was launching himself over Buffy with a roar of fury, heading straight for the forgotten guard as the gun went off twice more.

***

“Is that everything?” Willow asked anxiously. She was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table in the Summers’ living room. Giles and Joyce were on the couch and Xander was in an armchair, though only technically. He was fidgeting too much to be actually sitting.

“That’s everything.” Giles took time to give her a smile. “Thank you for your help.”

“Happy to.” She turned her worried eyes back to the map open on the table.

Giles swung the undyed thread over the map. A pushpin was tied to the other end along with one of Buffy’s long blond hairs. He began to chant, low and steady.

Joyce sat beside him, both hands gripping the handle of her daughter’s hairbrush, feeling the tension in the air build from the magic. It still didn’t compare to the tension in her own body; she’d been worried for hours now.

On the third repeat of the incantation, just as he’d said, sparks flew out from the pendulum. Willow held her breath, waiting to mark the location with a pin of her own if the one Giles held didn’t jerk his hand down. The farther away Buffy was, the less likely that would happen.

Instead of the little sparks coalescing into one light and sinking onto the map, they whirled above the paper surface for a moment, then faded.

“Oh, God.” Joyce had turned white. “Does that mean…”

“No.” Giles answered immediately. There was a frown on his face. “It would work even if…” He didn’t finish the thought. “Wherever she is, I think Buffy’s… shielded from magic. Including our spell.”

Willow was frowning, too, adding this to the information they already had. “Then it isn’t Spike. That’s why he kidnapped me. I mean, he couldn’t do magic.”

Xander’s face was as serious as it ever got. He leaned forward abruptly. “Giles, could you call Oz for us? He’ll come by if you ask. For Buffy.”

Willow’s brows drew together in both want and fear. She swallowed, then turned to the adults. “Of course he will.”

Giles shook his head, mystified. “Oz?”

“He sniffed us at the old factory,” Xander answered. His gaze darted to Willow, then found the floor, hating the miserable memories. “Magic wouldn’t mess up a werewolf’s nose, would it?”

***

Momentum carried Spike into the guard even as two wooden bullets entered his torso. A howl of pain tore from his throat, but it didn’t stop him from tearing into the human’s. He fed fast, pulling too much blood too fast until he felt the guard slump into unconsciousness. Blood loss could cause blackout as surely as a knock to the head.

Then the Slayer snatched him away from the human, hauling him off the supine body. His lips curled away from his fangs as the pain hit him.

Without looking at the unconscious guard, Buffy half-dropped Spike on the floor and went to her knees beside him, running her hands over his torso. Wooden bullets? Oh God. Solid. His solid torso. She pressed his shoulders down, wanting to see.

And he surged right back, his hands on her arms, checking the red shirt she wore for darker spots. He breathed in, testing her scent, then relaxed.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “You’re the one who was shot.” Now that he wasn’t fighting her, she lifted his abbreviated t-shirt. Two holes marred the perfection of his abdomen. “Twice. He shot you twice.” One of them was just below his ribs. A little higher and the round would have passed into his heart.

For his part, Spike was distantly impressed that the guard got off two shots as he sprang at him. He let out all his air before digging a finger into the lower wound. At least the wooden bullet was jacketed; he was grateful he only had to find an intact round instead of splinters.

“Eew,” Buffy said faintly, partly turning away. 

Just in time. The door to their prison was slowly closing on its own. She pushed off from the floor, diving forward in time to get her arm between the door and the frame. Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh. 

“We need to get out of here.” She could see the guard outside, sprawled in what looked like a normal hallway. He was still unconscious, so she got on her knees until she could reach his leg. She tugged him into place as the world’s largest doorstop.

Spike dropped the first wooden bullet on the concrete floor and took a second to draw in a ragged breath before letting it out. It wouldn’t do to whimper in pain in front of his mate. The second round wasn’t as deep, and he soon dropped it on the floor, too, wiping his bloody fingers on his black jeans. Giving the unconscious human’s seeping neck a longing glance, he forced himself to rise to his feet, his face further contorted with pain. Holding a hand over his stomach, he leaned down and checked the guard for weapons, coming away with a billy club and a spray can of mace or somesuch. He took a step to the side and retrieved the gun, too.

“Put them both inside and close the door?” Buffy asked, not waiting for his nod of agreement. “See how they like it.” She’d noted Spike’s search and did one of her own, finding a knife and a two-way radio. As soon as the vampire stepped over the doorstop, Buffy glanced at the door meaningfully. Spike immediately grabbed it, ensuring it wouldn’t close. She hauled the guard inside just far enough for his feet to clear the door.

Buffy really just wanted to run, but she took a moment to examine the two humans. Both of them wore the same polished black shoes. Were they really off-duty cops? The neck wounds Spike left weren’t bleeding any longer, as far as she could see, and both were breathing. He had attacked them without killing them. Meaning he could feed without killing, she realized slowly. She didn’t even know that was possible. At least, he could do it with supervision, right in front of her. Her expression fell into irritation at her suspicious inner Slayer. When he’s as starved as I am, even.

She stepped past the guards long enough to grab Spike’s duster and the wadded up bundle of cloth that comprised what was left of her hoodie and green top. Giles would have a fit if she left bloody clothes laying around for just anyone to find and work horrible dark magic on her. Pausing beside the two bloody objects that (she shuddered) Spike just dug out of his body with his fingers (she swallowed), she turned to meet his eyes. Her brows rose in question. When he nodded, she used the sleeve of her hoodie to scoop up the bullets and swipe the floor clean. She’d have to ask Giles about that; she really didn’t think vampires had enough of their own blood to worry about blood magic.

As she stood up, she saw a third bullet on the ground, the tip of the wood mashed flat where it had hit the spell-hardened wall. Buffy’s face paled. That first shot, the deafening report… he’d shot at her. She’d known the guard was about to attack her, but… He’d shot at her. Until now, that hadn’t really clicked.

And then she stood taller and stepped out of the room that had been their prison for three days. Spike shut it firmly. Both of them felt a frisson of magical energy buzz in front of them.

“Here.” She handed him the bundle and his jacket, then slipped her arm around his waist. When he looked down at her in surprise, Buffy frowned at him. “What? Let’s get out of here.” He pivoted toward the left, and they resumed their escape.

The floor of the hallway was tile, and the Slayer checked twice to make sure Spike hadn’t dripped. “Why this way?” she asked.

Spike touched his free hand to his ear. The other was draped over her shoulders, and he really was giving her some of his weight to support.

“This is where you heard them the last couple of days?” At Spike’s nod, she relaxed. That should be close to an easy exit. There was a door at the end of the hall, but it already stood open. Buffy blinked a little at the brightness; her eyes hadn’t been exposed to anything stronger than low-watt bulbs for a while.

They passed from the hallway into what looked like a breakroom. A table with six chairs stood in the middle of the large space, and there were two vinyl-covered couches along the wall. One corner featured cabinets hung over white laminate counters. A sink, microwave, and an outdated refrigerator completed the kitchenette.

And, on the opposite wall, two windows let in afternoon sunlight. Between the windows stood a door to the bright November day outside.

***

“Thank you, Oz.” Giles put down the phone and turned to Joyce. The chastened teenagers were quiet in the living room. He made his mouth curl in a smile for his Slayer’s mother. “He’s in Dutton right now, but he said he can leave right away. He should be here in an hour.”

Joyce nodded and let out a breath. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she realized she still had a death grip on Buffy’s hairbrush. “Good. That’s good.”

If he had never held her before, Giles would have found it easier to do what he should have thought to do hours ago. He took Joyce in his arms and held her as she cried on his shoulder. He was so impressed with her tears; she sobbed quietly, so the children wouldn’t hear.

***

Both of them stared at the door, Buffy with relief and Spike with dismay. He forced a smile onto his mouth and looked down at her, letting go. He shuffled a couple of steps to the table, laying down the confiscated weaponry, then moved back to her. Putting his hand on her lower back, he propelled her toward the door, urging her to go.

The factor of sunlight didn’t hit Buffy until she’d already turned around to give him a questioning look. “Oh.”

Spike cupped her jaw carefully and smiled again, then nodded toward the door.

Buffy went to the door and twisted the knob. It opened freely, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Turning to Spike, she gave him a blinding smile. “It’s open.” This late in autumn, a lot of Southern California was brown, even this close to the ocean. The building where they’d been held was on the edge of the rundown industrial district. The grey concrete and brown weeds looked as inviting as a green coastline.

For a moment, her longing eyes looked down the street toward the intersection. Buffy knew where she was. She could be home in ten minutes if she walked, much quicker if she ran at Slayer speed. She thought she could, now. She felt strong again.

Instead, she shut the door, though not all the way, and turned back to the vampire who stood in silence behind her. A determined look in her eye, she said, “Let’s see about your wounds.”

Spike stared at her as she came closer to him. His lips parted in wonder, though no sound came out.

She was staying. 

His mate chose to stay.

***

Angel woke early, not long after four in the afternoon. Well, of course he couldn’t sleep, not in a world without her in it. He rolled out of the bed in the master bedroom. Sometimes he wondered if he should have taken a different bedroom, one that didn’t have memories of Drusilla in it. But it did have an en suite bathroom, which was too convenient to give up. Each evening before he slept, he wondered if that would be the night he received a dream from the Powers That Be. With Buffy gone, he wasn’t sure of his route to redemption.

There had to be something, some meaning to it all. Maybe Whistler was wrong, and it wasn’t Buffy at all. She’d died, after all. Twice. And she’d killed him. None of it made sense. How was a relationship that was mostly about death supposed to help him? Maybe he was meant to help the next Slayer.

He showered and toweled off before heading to the closet, standing before it naked. Angel examined the clothes hanging inside on plastic hangers. He would have preferred wooden hangers, but it was too risky to have thin slats of wood around. At least there were no wire hangers; those changed the way clothes draped and could even permanently damage them.

On the far end was a neat pile of leather pants, tissue paper between the folds. I should really get rid of those, he thought. But he’d spent his own money on a shopping trip in Los Angeles not long after he’d let Buffy meet him. The demon who ran the vampire-friendly store assured him the pants made his legs and ass look powerful and sleek, the same way a snug-fitting riding outfit from his human days would. He hated spending the ill-gotten gains, but he wanted to show well for Buffy. 

A completely new wardrobe was expensive. He’d been so relieved when the main accounts for the Order of Aurelius came to him, as the oldest in the line. A hundred years of living in shabby hotels and gutters made him appreciate money all that much more. There was a reason he’d used his new access to the funds to buy the mansion instead of seeking out another abandoned property after the factory burned. It had been an homage to Darla, who liked having a view.

Angel stroked the leather pants. He’d only worn them when Angelus was in charge. He’d bought them, but he mostly tried to dress like that geeky guy, Wayne or Owen or something, the one who liked poetry. Buffy had dated him for a week or so, which prompted Angel to replace the clothes Whistler gave him.

Oh, Buffy. Beautiful, sweet, young Buffy.

He was going to kill Spike someday. Even if it turned out to be Drusilla who did the actual deed, William the Bloody was dust.

He was so glad now he hadn’t given Slayer-killing Spike his share of the money during those first, blissfully happy soulless days. The funds the wealthy young William brought into their coffers were a significant chunk, too. The demon bankers were sworn to let the oldest Aurelian alone access the accounts, and Spike would never get to the money over his dead body.

Should he track down the little punk for revenge now? Angel pondered this as he absently chose clothes that were appropriately dark for mourning, his fingers lingering on the leather pants for just a moment longer. He probably should track Spike, but Drusilla still needed her caregiver. Because if he found Spike, he’d find Dru. He didn’t want to find her. And he resolutely wasn’t going to think about how he hadn’t really challenged Spike since the fledge was five or six. Spike was a fighter, while he was an artist. He really didn’t care to lower himself to brawl with the brat.

He tied his shoes and examined a scuff critically. If he rubbed it against the rug, maybe… Yes! Much less noticeable. Angel ran his hand carefully over the tuck of his shirt, making sure it felt neat. He took a hip-length leather coat from the closet and examined it for a moment. Because Spike was on his mind, he couldn’t help but think how the duster the twerp wore flared out behind him. Maybe he should get a long coat, too. It would drape beautifully on his taller frame.

Angel wandered down to the kitchen and filled an opaque mug with pig’s blood. To mark his grief over Buffy’s death, he didn’t heat it before drinking. 

***

She was the most beautiful, precious being on the face of the planet, and her touch was the gentlest thing he’d ever experienced.

Or, not so gentle. He grunted a little as she zealously knotted a strip of cloth. Spike didn’t watch Buffy’s hands as they used the last of his black t-shirt for bandages, winding the cloth around his middle over folded pieces of black to serve as gauze. She was working on the wound left by the normal bullet that passed through his arm. Even the unintended roughness didn’t make his love-struck gaze waver from her face.

His mate was tending him, the same way he’d tended her. She was touching him, taking care of him!

Buffy was conscious of his eyes, self-conscious, really. She had led him to one of the couches and helped him out of his shirt. Even when she pulled it over his arm, dragging a wince from him, he kept staring at her. His yellow demon eyes could show an amazing amount of emotion. Gratitude, wonder… caring.

He would say love. Or, he’d gesture love.

Spike said he loved her.

Well, Spike’s demon said he loved her.

He’d distracted the guard from shooting at her again. Buffy had seen the barrel swivel from her direction toward the charging vampire.

Wooden bullets could kill either of them, and Spike had taken two for her.

“There.” She realized she had straddled one of his thighs as she worked on his arm. She was about to slowly back away from the half-dressed vampire when she noticed a swollen spot on his forehead. Without thinking, she took his face between her hands to get a better look. Frowning at the bruise, she started to ask how he got it before remembering he’d head-butted the guard in the hallway.

As she held his face, his vampire visage shifted and smoothed into his human features.

Buffy’s breath hitched.

When did Spike get gorgeous? 

His face beneath the mussed blond curls was more handsome than she’d ever realized, the only flaw the scar on one brow, and somehow that wasn’t a flaw. Her hands cupped the sculpture that was his jaw and cheekbones. His full, pink-tinted lips were slightly parted. And his eyes were an amazing deep blue, framed by those long lashes. 

They were looking at her with the same awestruck love as when they were yellow.

“Thanks.” Spike’s voice was rusty with disuse. He lifted the hand of his uninjured arm to cover one of hers. No claws tipped his long fingers. “Too kind to me, love.”

“You’re back.” Her voice was barely a whisper, wavering and uncertain.

Spike’s fingers trailed down to her wrist, then back up to her hand. His gaze held hers. “You stayed.”

“Is your head all right?”

“Fine.” Nothing could touch him right now.

“The drug wore off?”

“Must have.” She was so close, he couldn’t focus on both eyes at once, so he settled on her dominant right eye. “You’re beautiful in sunlight, pet.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Buffy pulled away, self-consciously smoothing her braid. “Thanks,” she managed, taking a step away from the couch.

“You should leave,” he said abruptly. 

“What?”

“’M fine, thanks to you. Go on, get away from here. I’ll leave as soon as it’s dark enough.”

Buffy crossed her arms and gave him a hard look. “I’m not leaving you injured. The guards, they changed, right? Do you know when?”

He clenched his jaw, but he had to shake his head. “No. But you don’t have –”

“Spike –”

“I’ll find you after night–”

“Truce. We leave together.” Her voice had a note of finality in it. Spike dropped his eyes to the floor, making Buffy feel bad for snapping. 

He didn’t agree, just nodded toward the cabinets. “Then you should check the cabinets. I smell food.”

Even as she gave him a lingering look, Buffy was on her way to investigate. In her determination to tend him the same as he’d done for her, she forgot about the kitchen. “Soap!” she exclaimed happily, going directly to the sink to wash her hands. Though she’d just tended bullet wounds, there wasn’t much blood on them.

Spike watched her dry her hands and begin poking through the cabinets. She found some sealed packets of beef jerky and blueberry Pop-Tarts, apparently not her favorite. She took an unopened can of soda from the fridge.

“Don’t overdo it, love,” he advised. “Too much after fasting will hurt your tum.”

“I actually did know that,” Buffy acknowledged, looking wistfully at the breakfast pastries. “But it looks way good.” The sound of shifting bone drew her attention, and she half rose from the table. “Spike?”

“All present and accounted for,” he confirmed, slumping and closing his eyes. “Just easier to handle pain this way.” With Buffy’s immediate needs met and in a halfway safe situation, his eyes were closing with weariness. “Might rest for a mo.”

By the time Buffy finished the half of the Pop-Tart she allowed herself, Spike had fallen into an exhausted sleep. The Slayer frowned at him. They were too far apart to work effectively if more guards showed up. She picked up her chair and carried it to the couch. Instead of sitting back down, she brought her food and the billy club from the table and set them on the seat. Buffy sank onto the couch cushion next to Spike. Not quite sure why she was doing it, Buffy leaned carefully against his uninjured arm, settling in beside him. Her eyes were alert and watchful as she stood guard beside the sleeping vampire.


	10. The Verbal Thing

“Slayer.”

She jerked. “Oh!” She was leaning against Spike. “I can’t believe I dozed off.”

“You didn’t. Or not for long.” He was back to blue eyes.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Some. I’ll need more blood to really heal.” He shifted, the movement causing him to grimace against the pain in his abdomen. “Leastways it was enough to dilute whatever they injected me with.”

She moved away from him so she could see him clearly. “I need to ask…” A hundred things, really. Buffy started with the most obvious. “You climbed the wall and just… stayed there.”

“Yeah. Older the vamp, the more abilities like that.”

What other abilities? “You never used that before.”

“You mean when we were fighting?” He looked hurt. “I fight Slayers skill-against-skill. You know that.”

She did. No minions, no thrall. Even when he had her on Halloween, when she was inept because of the costume, he hadn’t killed her.

“You didn’t kill the guards.”

He shrugged. “The first one, yeah, because I knew you wouldn’t like it.” Spike’s expression darkened. “The second one, that wanker. Him, I wanted to kill.”

“Why?”

Spike expression was puzzled now. “Why? He shot at you!” They had become so comfortable over the past few days that he automatically reached for her hand. “Coulda killed you.”

Oh. Buffy felt a little breathless at the anguish in his eyes and she squeezed his fingers tight without really realizing. “He could have killed you, too.” With her free hand, she carefully touched his torso. “You got his attention, made him aim the gun at you. You did get shot.”

His mouth curled in self-mockery. “Yeah, three times. Great escape plan.”

“Hey, we’re out, the guards are in, and we’re alive.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t make a joke about how alive he was. “’S’long as you’re safe.”

Buffy dropped her eyes, wished she had dropped his hand and moved away before asking the next one. “Um… Do you remember what happened?”

“Not until I woke up in that room.”

“No, not at the magic store. I mean,” she swallowed, “the past three days.” He looked away, and Buffy studied his face, holding her breath for some reason.

“All of it. Couldn’t… surface, but I know what happened.”

“Oh?”

Could that be hope in her voice? He was such a git. She was holding his hand. She hadn’t laughed and told him it was impossible, that he was a vampire and she was a goddess. Still, he couldn’t meet her eyes. “Been fightin’ it for a while. ’S’why Dru dumped me, innit? Said she could see you all around me, that I was covered in you. I didn’t want to hear it, because it was impossible. Nothing could ever come of,” he swallowed, “of loving you. Easier to try to stay away, try to be the Big Bad.”

“Look at me.” Her voice was a whisper.

Spike drew in a ragged breath and then clenched his jaw. His expression was of a man facing the guillotine, but he met her eyes.

Buffy saw the emotion in the blue depths, his desperation and his fear. And she saw love, so much love.

No one had ever looked at her like that.

Tears stood in her own eyes. “Demons can’t love.” She hurried on, because she saw only despair now, felt the spasm in his fingers. “That’s what the Council says. That’s what Angel said.”

“Just because he can’t love, doesn’t mean no other vampire can.”

She started to protest, then remembered that he meant Angelus. Buffy agreed that there was no love in Angelus. “How is it possible?”

He looked down, clearly embarrassed. “Dunno, not really. Reckon it’s why she picked me, yeah? The grands were tired of looking out for Dru, so they sent her to find a caretaker. She saw something in me…” He lifted a shoulder. “Being a vampire didn’t come natural to me. Never evil enough, never interested in the ‘artistry.’ But loving Dru? I could do that. Did it for a long time.”

He looked up then, but it was too late. Buffy had let go of his hand and stood up. She grabbed her food and walked to the door, standing in the sunlight. Spike stared at her, not sure what happened.

Buffy had a drink of soda for her dry throat. Why did those words – loving Dru – leave her feeling raw? She knew he loved the crazy vampire; she’d used that against him last year at the Sunset Club. Love for Drusilla was why he came to her for their first truce. She clutched her Pop-Tart too hard, crumbling it in the package, and cleared her throat. “I’m, uh, gonna check the perimeter.” And she slipped outside, where he couldn’t follow.

I’m buggering it all up. 

Spike stood with a wince. She’s disgusted with me, now that she’s had time to think. Nothing but a vampire, and she’s the Slayer. He wanted to smash things, wanted to go back to their prison and drain the guards, wanted to –

He dug his fingers into the lowest bullet wound. Pain lanced through him, clearing his mind of everything except the agony.

Calm down.

Everything was all right until I started talking, so shut up.

Be smart, like her. She’s checking the perimeter. I can check the inside. 

Moving stiffly, Spike reclaimed his duster. He went down the hallway. That was very nearly the extent of the building, just the long corridor and the prison along the right-hand wall. There was a single door at the end, opening onto a windowless, cheerless room with only dust inside. He prowled back along the hallway, hearing nothing inside their erstwhile cell except heartbeats.

In the breakroom, he ventured to the door, enough to look outside, but Buffy wasn’t in sight. He did spot another door in the corner. Thinking it was only a closet, Spike was pleased to find it opened onto a bathroom. The narrow room was built lengthwise behind the kitchenette to share the plumbing connections. He washed his hands and wet his face. Taking a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, he put them under the faucet and began dabbing at his arm and torso.

Buffy came back inside, her eyes going to the couch. She was calmer now; their conversation not so fresh. The quick check around the building revealed no waiting cars, and not a single vehicle passed on the street the whole time.

The couch was empty. Spike was gone. Her first thought, that he’d left, was silly; she’d just been outside, and it was still too bright. Her second was worse. Could vampires dust because of injuries? “Spike?” she called, her voice tight.

“Here, pet,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. He nodded toward it. “Look what I found.”

Relief flooded her the moment she saw him. Now that he was standing, she realized she’d half mummified him with strips from his t-shirt. “A bathroom. That’s great.” She sounded more enthusiastic than was warranted.

“Let me get my coat, an’ I’ll get out of your way.” He swayed to the side as he stood back up, bumping against the doorframe.

Buffy was there, taking the duster with one hand and winding her other arm around his waist, offering support. “Let’s get you back to the couch.” She steered him carefully away from the slant of sunshine coming through the door. Not much daylight remained, maybe an hour and a half.

She helped him to the sofa, and he held onto her as he eased down, trying not to use his abdominal muscles. Spike let out a little huff of breath just before he let go, stirring the loose hair around her ear and the side of her neck. 

“There. You, uh, rest or something. I’m going to, um,” she stood up, smoothing the silk of his shirt. Buffy gestured toward the bathroom. “Be back in a few minutes.”

The toilet and sink weren’t super clean, but there was soap. While not quite in heaven, Buffy hummed a happy little sound until she looked in the mirror hanging over the sink. Her eyes widened in horror. While Spike had done a good job braiding her hair, it was flat and greasy. Her nose was shiny. And, oh crap! Was that a pimple on her forehead?

By the time she finished washing her face, her hairline was wet. Buffy pulled on the strands, trying to get some volume out of them. Then she pulled Spike’s shirt over her head and swabbed at her neck, pits, and under her boobs, any place she got sweaty.

As she continued with her sink bath, Buffy thought about Spike, how exhausted he was. She still wanted to run home, but she was glad she stayed. He wasn’t up for any kind of fight right now. She wondered if they had to wait until it was full dark; her instincts were telling her they really didn’t have that long.

She’d have to ask him, which meant she would have to talk to him again. His words weren’t as raw now, and she considered them. When he talked about loving Drusilla, he used the past tense. She was sure of it. 

But he said he fought loving her.

Well, she could understand that. Three days ago, she would have urged him to fight harder. Something had changed, though, and she wasn’t sure what. But she knew it began with the tears in his yellow eyes at the news that she’d been dead for a few minutes. He cried for her. His demon cried for her.

He wasn’t supposed to be anything but a demon. Yet without access to whatever part of the human he had been, the demon loved her.

Angel’s demon loathed her. Angelus mocked her feelings for him, used those feelings, but never once looked at her with anything less than derision. He wasn’t even that interested in her. He’d quickly moved on from tormenting her and her friends to trying to end the world.

And Spike came to help her save it. He’d presented it like it was a joke – everything except saving Drusilla – but he had watched her with such intensity that night.

If Spike loved her, when had it started? As she dried off, Buffy was sure it had to be before the truce. He wouldn’t have come to her unless he already had feelings, and when his eyes weren’t wary, they had been…

Passionate.

Admiring.

She looked at her face in the mirror. She looked… soft, and she hadn’t looked that way for a long time. Buffy turned and retrieved Spike’s shirt. When it settled over her, she ran her hands over her arms, just to feel the silk.

Her eyes went to Spike as soon as she opened the bathroom door. He was in vampire face again, his eyes closed. The corners of her mouth tugged up; he was clutching the leather coat to him the same way she cuddled with Mr. Gordo. Her smile faded when she remembered his wounds; he might just be trying to support his injured stomach.

“’Lo, love,” he murmured, not opening his eyes. “Feeling all fresh?”

She sat down beside him. “A world of no. It’s going to take three showers before I feel fresh.” He looked pale, so she covered one of his hand with hers, wanting him to know she was there. “What’s the first thing you want to do? Shower?”

“’Fraid I have to say feed.”

Buffy sobered. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go out. My mom can drive me to the butcher shop to get you some blood.”

He opened one eye. “Worried for me, are you?”

“You couldn’t see yourself in the mirror, so I have to tell you: you don’t look like you can take on a kitten right now.”

Spike opened the other eye and gave her a half-smile. “I’ll have you know moggie would be down for the count in the first round.” Then he blurted out the thing that was on his mind and had been almost since she shut the bathroom door. “What is it you feel for Angelus? Angel, I mean. Angel.”

She looked down. Her hand was still over his. “What you said in the magic shop, about us never being friends. We aren’t. We never were. I didn’t like him very much, then I kind of… fell for him.” She drew in a breath, a reverse sigh. “So, if we aren’t friends and we absolutely can’t be anything more… I guess we’re just over.”

“Do you love him?” Both the words and his expression were stark.

Buffy thought about it, still not meeting his eyes. “I’ll probably always care about him. Whatever we had before… It was intense. But I’m not in love with him.” Her eyes darted to his, wanting to see how he’d taken this.

Spike shifted to his human face. He wore a relieved expression. “You’ve thought about this.”

She nodded. “A lot. I’d come to terms with it all.” Her voice gained an edge. “Then he came back.” Buffy wrinkled her nose. “What about you?”

He shook his head. “I’m not in love with Peaches.”

She rolled her eyes and took her hand away. “Men,” she said, disgusted. “I meant Drusilla, and you know it.”

“I’ll always love her.” The words came immediately, freezing Buffy where she sat. “But I’m not in love, not anymore. Even before Prague…” How could he tell her of the bone-deep hurt of finding her with yet another demon, on top of all the hurt from all the other infidelities? “When she was sick, she was sweeter to me than she’s been for years. Thought she finally realized…”

He wasn’t going to say anything more, she realized. “Then you cured her, just in time for Angelus.”

He nodded and looked away. “Hated seeing you with him. The other day, I mean. After the things Angelus said about you…”

Buffy closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to know.

Spike was quiet, feeling guilt of his own for his carnal thoughts. She was so young, too young. “I’m sorry about what happened, pet.”

“What thing?” None of what happened with Angelus had been his fault.

“The dream.” He was still looking away, but he closed his eyes. “My impulses… I lost control.”

The self-loathing in his voice brought her up short. She tried some bad humor. “At least it wasn’t the impulse to kill me.”

“Would you –” He heard the impatience in his tone and made himself stop. “I don’t have that impulse.”

Her brow furrowed. “Angel said he always has the desire to drain me, to kill me.”

‘Angel said’ was rapidly becoming his least favorite phrase; ‘Daddy always’ previously sat at the top of the list. “That isn’t me.”

“Why not?”

His jaw flexed. “Both of us,” he began, but never finished. Instead, he turned to her and opened his eyes, his gaze tracing over her face. “I can hear it, you know. Your pulse. If I’m close enough, I can trace its way through your body, the blood leaving your heart, traveling through your arteries, the softer hum of it in your veins. You know I can hear when your heart rate picks up, the smell of your hormones, even the chemicals associated with your emotions.

“All of that sings to me: Buffy lives. She’s alive. They’re part of you, pet. You’re in the world, with me. Why would I want to stop that symphony?”

His eyes were so blue and so tired. Spike looked defeated. Buffy knelt down next to him so he could clearly see that she had tears in her own. What he said… it was like a poem. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” Dropping her gaze to the floor for a moment, she took a breath, looking for courage. “That’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“And that’s the first time anyone has said that to me.” There was something ironic in his slurred voice.

“Are you still going back to Drusilla?” Spike stopped breathing. Buffy dropped her eyes for a moment before forcing herself to look at him.

“What? No.” How could she think that? “’Course not. Not now. I’ll stay, I’ll… I will do what you want me to do, Buffy.”

Had he ever used her name before? She didn’t think so; she’d remember, wouldn’t she? The way it sounded in his deep voice, as if he was saying something precious, a word of worship.

“If you stay, you can’t kill people anymore.”

“All right.” The words were immediate and sincere.

“Just like that?”

He nodded. “Just like that. Know it hurts you when you can’t save them, love. I can feed without killing, without them even knowing.”

She sat back on her heels, looking both surprised and troubled. “Feed without killing?” But that’s what he’d done to the guards, wasn’t it? She already knew he could. She’d been thinking that he’d bag it, like Angel. But he wasn’t like Angel.

“I know you don’t see that on the Hellmouth,” he was saying. “It’s the energy; it… short-circuits a demon’s common sense or something. But that’s how vamps feed everywhere else. Catch and release. Don’t want to become common knowledge, yeah? Stay on the down low.”

“How does that work? Those guards will remember you bit them.”

“That was a fight; my fangs were my weapon. A feeding bite is different. Gentler,” and that word sounded odd from him, “leaves the human confused.”

“And you can do that?”

“Usually do.” He looked down. He wanted to tell her that he killed the clerk at the magic shop when he had no hope, because it might get her attention. But he was learning that he didn’t have to say aloud every thought and motivation. “Love… whatever happens to me, I want it to be at your hand, yeah? I’ve been trying to be the Big Bad, even without Dru, trying to…” He looked away. “Just to be on your radar.”

“Well, it worked,” she said wryly.

“What a cock-up.”

“If that means ‘mistake,’ I’ll agree.” The phrase made her think of his dream again, the way he pressed into her leg. Buffy tucked a sstray strand of hair behind her ear. “You really don’t want to kill me or feed off me?”

“No, pet. Don’t want to hurt you.” 

“What was the impulse? That you lost control of?”

The sun was still too bright in the blue November sky outside. There was no escape for him. And she’d chosen to stay. “To taste you. To bring you pleasure.” He growled the sound that meant ‘Buffy.’

Buffy kept her eyes on the floor as her face grew red. “Oh.” That definitely wasn’t a vampire thing. It was a Spike thing. Then she remembered what he said about being able to read her body’s sounds and scents. She hurriedly stood and took a few steps away.

“Won’t lose control again, not now that drug’s out of my system,” he said hastily. And he made the mistake of breathing in her wondrous scent.

Buffy nodded, disappointed and embarrassed, focusing on the cabinets.

“Next time,” Spike’s voice became impossibly deep and silky, “I’ll be in complete control, claws and fangs tucked away safe.” Her body went rigid at those words. He thumped his head against the couch, berated himself for being an idiot, and changed the subject. “Best have a little more food, pet. Been long enough, yeah?” Too young, he reminded himself; she was still just seventeen, wasn’t she?

Buffy took the excuse and went back to the kitchen, her face flaming. She really didn’t care for jerky, so she took the last Pop-Tart. Out of habit, she flattened the box for recycling, and then realized there was no bin for it. Her mind was elsewhere.

He wasn’t Angel. He wasn’t pressuring her to give him anything. Spike was trying, not very successfully, to pressure himself not to give her something. 

She knew she wasn’t being mature about this, but: seventeen! She had a good excuse for not being calm and cool about oral… about what he was offering.

Still, she didn’t have to completely spaz. “Spike? I should have asked before. Do you want one?” She held out the silver sleeve of Pop-Tarts.

He raised his head and looked at her with yellow eyes. He opened his mouth to answer. All that came out was a growl.

***

Angel wandered to the southernmost room on the top floor of the mansion so he could obliquely watch the westering sun. He had a plan: newspapers.

A store not far past the point where his posh neighborhood changed from residential to commercial zoning had a history as a newsstand. It still stocked ten or so newspapers beyond the Sunnydale Press. He was going to buy them all and figure out where he might be best needed. Surely there would be stories in the crime section that hinted at supernatural attacks.

He had thought further about it and decided that Whistler was right about Buffy being his path to redemption. She had taught him what to avoid on his quest. And Faith was obviously a sign from the Powers. There was already a Slayer in Sunnydale for him to help, now that he knew not to think of her romantically.

The Council didn’t seem to know what to do with two Slayers. They didnt even give Faith a Watcher of her own. Sure, he’d gotten off to a rocky start with Her, but he understood her. He’d come across a lot of girls like her, girls who didn’t have someone looking out for them. 

Angel would take care of her. She probably wouldn’t want to be stuck in Sunnydale, either. Faith was the type to like faster-paced living. Together, the two of them would move to a likely city and, with his guidance and expertise, they’d rid the place of evil. The Powers That Be would have to notice all the good he would do.

The shop had the L.A. Times and the San Francisco Chronicle. It had the New York Times, too, but he didn’t want to move back east, even if the hockey coverage was better there. He liked the thought of Los Angeles, just because of the name. It was almost as if ‘the City of Angels’ was another signpost on his road to redemption. Hopefully, there would be a lot of poorly disguised demon activity there, between the lines of the news stories.

***

“Come in, Oz,” Joyce said. She knew him the least of Buffy’s friends, but she pulled him into a hug anyway. Right now, all her hopes rested with him.

“Um.” Oz blinked, then patted her back. “No news?”

“No,” Giles said. “Thank you for coming.”

“No problem.” He gave Joyce a little nod. “She’s been missing since Friday morning?” As Mrs. Summers moved into the living room, he froze, his gaze settling on Willow and Xander.

“Hey, Oz,” Willow said, her voice a little choked. “Thank you for doing this.”

Xander nodded his agreement without quite meeting Oz’s gaze. “Thank you for helping Buffy and Mrs. Summers.”

Oz couldn’t bring himself to go into the living room. He turned back to Giles. “Anyone have the full story?” He only added one thing to the story, noting that Angel showed up after he and Cordelia arrived at the burned out factory. Willow closed her eyes at the memory, and Xander bowed his head.

“So, we start at the alley behind the magic store?” Giles suggested.

The slight young man nodded, taking the keys to his van from his pocket. “That makes sense.”

“Thank you for helping find Buffy,” Joyce began, wanting to wrangle a place in the van with him. Oz’s head came up, and he looked past her.

“I’m found,” Buffy said from behind her mother. 

Joyce turned and saw Buffy helping Spike – his face looked horrible – walk down the short hallway from the kitchen. “Buffy?” Her voice was faint. Then she was down the hallway, pulling her daughter into a bone-crushing hug that would do a Slayer proud.

“Hi, Mom.” Buffy closed her eyes, trying to keep the tears in.

“What happened?” Joyce pulled away enough to frame Buffy’s face in her hands. “Are you all right?”

“We’re fine.” Buffy forced a smile. “We just escaped. Someone drugged us and –”

Joyce hadn’t listened past ‘fine.’ She smothered her daughter in another hug.

Meanwhile, Giles’ attention was fixed on the vampire. When Joyce grabbed Buffy, Spike leaned against the wall. He was sliding slowly down it, his eyes closed. “What’s wrong with him?” His voice was a little higher than usual; even though Buffy seemed to be all right – she’d said they had both been drugged – Giles would feel much better if he had a crossbow.

Buffy immediately pulled free of her mother and slid her arm around Spike’s waist, positioning her shoulder beneath his arm. “Mom? Could you run out to the butcher’s shop for blood?”

Joyce tore her gaze from her daughter, and her eyes grew wide. She’d never seen a vampire’s face this clearly before. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He took two bullets that were meant for me,” Buffy said softly, her eyes on the blond man. “Wooden ones. And right now, he can’t talk or shake off the vampire face.” She turned her gaze back to her mother. “So, we’re going to take care of him.”

Joyce hadn’t taken her eyes from Spike’s monstrous face. After the first shock of it, she could see he was in pain. “Of course we will.”


	11. Homecoming

“He’s been shot?” Joyce looked between the two, and her eyes traveled over Spike, looking for wounds. His long coat covered most of him, but she could see his torso was covered with strips of black cloth. Some of the makeshift bandages had shifted as the pair made their way across town to Revello Drive, revealing one ugly hole beneath his ribs. “Oh, you poor thing!” She moved so that she was on his other side. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

Spike turned his head to give Joyce a small, grateful smile. She was kind as the day was long, if utterly clueless.

“He just needs blood, Mom,” Buffy said. The three of them made their way to the foyer, forcing Giles and Oz to move aside.

Her Watcher’s eyebrows were high as he echoed, “Wooden bullets?”

Buffy nodded at him as they passed. In the living room, both Willow and Xander were stumbling away, their backs almost against the fireplace. She and Joyce settled Spike on the couch.

“Buffy?” Willow asked, her eyes wide.

“What are you doing with the vamp who kidnapped us?” Xander spat.

Buffy dropped on the couch next to Spike. She ignored her friends and turned to her mother. “I know you want explanations, but he really needs blood. Could you…?”

“I’ll go,” Oz said. 

“Thanks, Oz.” Buffy gave him one of her dazzling, full smiles. She felt Spike shift next to her. “Wait.” She took the money Spike retrieved from a pocket and handed it to Joyce, who passed it to Oz. 

Turning back to the pair on the couch, Joyce asked, “Is there anything I can do right now?”

“Maybe an apple or something?” Buffy asked, giving her mother a beseeching look. “I haven’t had anything to eat, either.”

“Oh, sweetie!” Joyce grabbed her hand. “Of course. Just give me a minute.” She swooped in for another hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Then she leaned over Spike, making him flinch, and gave him a careful squeeze on his shoulder, fortunately missing the injury on his arm. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Spike inclined his head, but decided not to smile. No need to flaunt his fangs; the fear and upset coming off her friends near the fireplace was almost heady.

Once her mother moved, Buffy looked around. Other than Cordelia, everyone was there except… “Where’s Angel?” She absently squeezed Spike’s thigh when he made gave a little growl. “He was with us when we were taken. Has anyone seen him?”

Even the presence of another dangerous vampire wasn’t enough to overcome Xander’s dislike of Angel. “He’s at his mansion. He thinks you’re dead, that Spike killed you.”

Buffy had her next words all ready to go. “Is he all – He what?” she finished, her voice faint with surprise.

Willow nodded. “He didn’t even tell us you were missing. We’ve only been looking since yesterday.”

Spike’s snarl was louder, so Buffy lightly pinched his thigh. “Not helping.” She looked up at Giles, knowing he would tell her the truth. “He was there. I mean, the three of us were fighting a whole bunch of vampires. Together. Why would he think that Spike killed me?”

Lifting the arm that wasn’t nestled against Buffy hurt, but it was worth it. Spike pointed his finger at his temple and made a stirring motion.

Buffy couldn’t argue. “Spike’s right. That’s crazy.”

Giles sank down into the armchair, his eyes on Spike. “And he cannot speak? At all?”

“Nope. We’ve been playing charades for the last three days.” She looked around. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s Sunday?” Giles nodded in response.

“Here, sweetheart.” Joyce came back with a tray with an apple, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off, a glass of milk, and a napkin covered with potato chips. Buffy moaned at the banquet in front of her, causing Spike to give her a sizzling sidelong look that fortunately escaped everyone’s notice. 

“That looks amazing,” the Slayer enthused as her mother put the tray on the table in front of her. 

“You say you haven’t eaten for three days?” Giles asked. “You may want to go slow.”

“We found Pop-Tarts,” Buffy said, grabbing the sandwich, “and I ate those slow.” She took a huge bite. “Mmm, sho good,” she said as she chewed.

Joyce beamed at her and sat down beside her on the couch. With everyone focused on Buffy, Willow and Xander exchanged looks. Xander’s eyebrows rose, and Willow shrugged. The shorthand of longtime friendship was enough that they both sat down on the edge of the hearth. Spike hadn’t attacked them – he didn’t look like he was capable of much mayhem at the moment – and Buffy was there, just in case.

“And you said you were drugged? Both of you?”

“Mm-hm,” Buffy nodded, swallowing mightily. She took the glass and drank a third of the milk, then made herself stop for at least a couple of minutes. Spike pointed one clawed finger at the tray, and Buffy grabbed a few chips, keeping a couple for herself.

Next to her, Spike sighed in contentment. The crisps looked tasty, but he hadn’t wanted to lean forward and put pressure on his wounds. He popped one in his mouth, not noticing that everyone had fallen silent. He crunched once more, the sound very loud in the quiet room, and looked around in confusion.

“Oh,” Joyce said, flustered. “I didn’t think about you eating people food.” 

Spike wanted to snort, but didn’t. People were his food.

“Do you want a tray, too?”

He shook his head, held up a finger for ‘wait,’ and mimed drinking from a bottle.

“It’s no bother.”

He shook his head and gave her a thumb’s up.

“What about more hot cocoa?”

Spike nodded, but pointed at his wrist, then nodded again.

“All right,” Joyce agreed. “Later.”

Buffy beamed at the vampire. “He’s great at charades.”

Giles tried again. “What did the drugs do?”

“So, the last thing either of us remembered was leaving the magic store. We woke up in a room. Well, Spike woke up first. He couldn’t say anything or lose the lumpies…” She told how he tested the boundaries of the room, then waited for her to wake. Buffy ate as she explained that she was too weak to break her shackles.

If she’d been watching her Watcher, she would have seen him pale. “Weak? You were drugged with something that made you weak?” And were locked in a room with a demon with every bit of humanity, what little there was, suppressed? His voice was tight. “Are you sure that it was just your strength that was affected?”

Buffy nodded. “Well, I was confused, but lucid. Lucky it was Spike instead of some random vamp.”

“Lucky it was Spike instead of Angel.” Xander threw that into the conversation with bitter satisfaction.

Buffy went still. “Oh, God.” She hadn’t thought of that.

Neither had Spike, whose growl sounded louder and more like a snarl. His eyes were on Buffy, the yellow muddy and horrified. His mate chained up in a room with Angelus, tools for torture at the ready. The months he was in the wheelchair, trapped, he’d had to listen to the elder vampire blather on about his great plans for what he’d do to the Slayer when he had her in his grasp.

Buffy met his eyes. She wasn’t going to mention the pliers and saws in front of her mother – there were a lot of things she was going to gloss over, such as exactly how Spike cleaned her wounds – but she’d tell Giles later. “I’m okay, Spike,” she said, her voice soft. She brushed crumbs from her fingers and wrapped them around his wrist for a moment. “He cleaned the glass out of my back --”

“Glass?” Giles asked, observing her freely moving to get a drink of milk. She hadn’t mentioned injuries.

“I don’t know how I got glass embedded in my back. Maybe I fell on something when I got knocked out? Anyway, he ripped his t-shirt for bandages.” Her brow wrinkled. “I healed faster than regular Buffy but not as fast as Slayer Buffy, but that’s where I got the idea to use it as bandages for him.” She gave him a little smile, which he returned, showing the tips of his fangs. “Spike got me out of the chains, then gave me his shirt to wear.”

“Wait, what?” Xander asked. “Where was your shirt?”

Buffy flushed, little doubt that Xander was picturing her half-dressed, but she kept her tone light and sardonic. “Shards of glass?” She couldn’t keep from glaring at him for a couple of seconds. “I wasn’t naked or anything.”

Wincing, Spike leaned to the side and brought out the wadded-up ball of fabric that used to be Buffy’s jacket and shirt. He set them on the floor, scooting them beneath the coffee table with a booted foot.

Giles looked to be on the edge of a faint as he stared at the stained cloth. “You were bleeding.”

The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Shards of glass?” she repeated. “Anyway, he tasted a drop and there was a chemical or something in it that made him wonder if I had a little hole from a needle, like he did in his neck.” Spike’s thigh nudged hers deliberately when she told the lie about how he tasted her blood. She pressed back. “Anyway, I got jabbed in the upper arm.”

“You don’t look all that dehydrated,” Willow pointed out in the ensuing silence, simply curious.

“Oh! There was a sink on the wall and these two old towels – well, one, because the other one got all bloody when Spike got the slivers of glass out.” She met Willow’s fascinated gaze and wrinkled her nose. “And a drain in the floor for… you know.” Willow wrinkled her nose back.

“Oh, honey.” Joyce patted her knee. “That sounds like such a terrible place.”

“Well, whatever the drug was,” Buffy explained, “it made me really sleepy the first couple of days. Spike let me have his coat so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the concrete floor. I found --”

“That was very gallant of you,” Joyce said approvingly, leaning around her daughter to beam at the vampire, who ducked his head at the unexpected praise.

Buffy examined the people around her during the lull. The hostility toward Spike had lessened as her friends became engrossed in the tale, and her mother hadn’t had any at all. Later, she needed to ask about that. Impulsively, she put her arms around Joyce for a hug. “I’m so happy to be home, Mom,” she whispered.

Joyce swallowed hard. “I was so worried.”

“We all were,” Willow added.

When her mother reluctantly let go, Buffy took a breath. “Okay, where was I? Um, lots of sleep, going through Spike’s coat to find a deck of cards, and playing solitaire.” She went on to the important part, the escape, only to find herself interrupted once again over the fact that the guards were human and were still alive.

“Spike didn’t drain the guard?” Giles asked his Slayer in surprise.

The vampire in question widened his eyes in irritation and raised his hand. He was sitting right here. He shook his head.

“Oh. Er, sorry.” Giles wanted to snatch back the apology – niceties for the undead were not part of Watcher training – but he was too fascinated to be mortified. “You hadn’t fed for several days. It’s hard to believe you could have that much control.”

Spike shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. Not all that hard.

“And did the humans have any identifying marks, anything that might give us an idea who they worked for?” Giles asked, trying to keep his voice casual. “Uniforms, tattoos,” he cleared his throat, “accents?”

“No. The only thing I noticed is that they both had on shiny dress shoes. Like cops wear. Different clothes, though.”

Xander’s eyebrows shot up. “And those vamps who attacked you said they were a welcoming committee for the Mayor?” Everyone fell into a contemplative silence at that. Spike gave the teenager a reassessing look. The boy had more going on upstairs than he’d thought.

Buffy, eager to finish the story and get upstairs for a very long shower, seized her chance again. “So, I either didn’t hit my guard hard enough, or I’m not as recovered as I thought.” She tensed as Spike twitched and his head swiveled toward the right, hearing something.

“Hey,” called a voice from the kitchen a moment later, then Oz appeared in the short hallway. “I just brought the blood to the kitchen.”

“Be right back,” Buffy told everyone brightly, standing first so that she could help Spike rise with minimal use of his abdominal muscles. 

In the kitchen, Oz nodded at her. “Glad you’re home safe.”

“Thank you.” She started to get into the paper bag on the counter, but the guitarist stopped her.

“Finish telling your story. I’ll stay with Spike.”

Her brows drew together as she got a weird vibe from him, the kind of thing a former Fiesta Queen and social butterfly could spot at a thousand paces. It was like he and Willow were avoiding each other. Something had happened. “Oookay,” she agreed, her eyes going to Spike’s to make sure he was all right with the werewolf.

He nodded at her and made a shooing motion toward the living room. When she left with a lingering look, Spike gave the shorter man a quizzical gesture.

Oz opened the bag and took out two jars of blood. “One is cow, one is pig,” and he reached in for something else, “but I thought this might be more useful.” He set two bags of donated human blood on the counter.

Spike stared at them a moment, wanting to rip into the thick plastic and suck them dry. Instead, he licked his lips and gave Oz a puzzled look.

“Butcher shops open 24/7?” he deadpanned. “Stocked with more than rib roasts.” He touched one bag. “The night manager already heated it.”

Moaning in much the same way that Buffy had over her sandwich, Spike snatched the first bag and drained the thick red liquid in a handful of seconds. Breathing in deeply, he let out a sigh. The blood was missing some of the component parts, but it would fix him enough to hunt – but not kill – for himself. Moving slowly to make it clear he had no ill intent, he put a hand out to touch Oz’s shoulder. He kept his mouth closed over his fangs as he smiled.

The werewolf got it. “No problem.”

Back in the living room, Willow’s eyes were fixed on the empty hallway behind Buffy. “Did Oz leave?”

“He stayed in the kitchen with Spike.” She lowered her voice. “What’s going on with --”

Willow shot up from the hearth, her eyes wide and terrified. “You left him alone with Spike?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said slowly. “I’ve been alone with him for three days, Wil. Oz is fine.”

Xander stood, too. He battled an urge to put his arm around his best friend, but guilt kept him from it. “Spike kidnapped us, Buffy.”

She sighed. “I know. We’re going to have a long talk about that.”

“Oh, good,” Xander replied sarcastically. “As long as you give him a good talking-to, I’m sure he won’t ever do it again.”

“He won’t,” Buffy said shortly, the corners of her mouth turning down. She sat down next to Joyce again. “Okay, where was I?”

***

Angel walked the shadowed sidewalks of her neighborhood, taking in the quiet and small splashes of light in the windows of the houses. The whole world should be muted because she was gone. The loud laugh track of a comedy show made him scowl as he walked past the house on the corner of Buffy’s block. Didn’t they realize Joyce was grieving?

Well, maybe they didn’t. Joyce was deep in denial. He hadn’t been sure that coming here was the right thing to do, but Giles wasn’t at his apartment. Not that he was sure of the Watcher’s mood. The Englishman knew that it was Angelus’ fault, not his, but knowing something intellectually was different than accepting that the face of the monster who tortured him was not the same as Angel.

He could pay his condolences, anyway. It was the right thing to do. And if Faith happened to be there, he could arrange a time to talk with her about his plan for their future in Los Angeles. Angel turned onto the walkway that led to the Summers’ porch and climbed the steps with his usual vampire’s silence.

***

When the knock came on the door, interrupting Buffy, Joyce tilted her head toward Giles, who was closest. “Would you…?”

The Watcher stood and checked to see who it was. Angel was on the other side, his head bowed in such a portrait of sorrow that all that was missing was a frame and a signature in the corner. Remembering that Willow had proudly told him about her earlier spellcasting, Giles opened the door with a grim air of satisfaction. “Angel.”

“I thought you might be here,” he said diffidently, not able to meet the Watcher’s cold blue eyes for long. “I’m sure you --”

That’s as much as he got out, because someone was behind Giles. He got one clear look at the blond head, then snarled, leaping toward the interior of the house, ready to plow down the Watcher so he could get to her murderer.

“Spike!” Angel spat, his face transforming as his brows ridged and his fangs broke through.

Giles saw Angelus leaping at him through the doorway. With reflexes born of years of training, he had the stake from his jacket pocket and mostly pointed at the vampire. The wood angled upward to take advantage of the demon’s own momentum, the move a last-ditch effort every Watcher learned early at the academy.

The only thing that saved Angel from Giles’ stake was the barrier Willow had reinstated. Angel bounced face first against the invisible force, falling backward to sprawl in a painful heap on the steps, his feet in the air.

Inside, Spike let out a delighted laugh as he watched his grandsire ram into the threshold barrier, then fall off the porch. “That was wonderful, Watcher.” His voice and human face became accessible after the second bag of human blood.

Angel regained his footing and was pressing against the invisible wall, snarling and trying to get at Spike. “You murdering bastard!” he cried, scrabbling at the force keeping him from the brat. “I’ll kill you for touching her!” Angel cracked his shoulder against the obstruction.

Spike stopped, his own human brows furrowing. Peaches hadn’t been that upset about the dead clerk at the magic shop before. Then he remembered that the idiot thought he’d killed Buffy.

Something pricked at him, then, watching Angel hurl himself against the threshold once more. It wasn’t such a wild idea, was it? He was the Slayer of Slayers. Nearly the first thing he’d ever said to Buffy was a death threat. Was it any wonder Angelus jumped to that conclusion?

“Mom?” Buffy asked, still on the couch with her mother.

“Disinvited,” Joyce said, a snap in her voice. “And you are not to invite him in my house again.”

Buffy frowned at her mother, then moved to stand beside an amused Giles. Watching Angel work himself into a strop seemed to feed something in him. “Angel?” she said quietly.

“Killing’s too good for you,” Angel snarled, his eyes fixed on the blond vampire. “I’ll string you up like I did in Barcelona and flay the hide off you. Only this time,” another futile shove against the barrier, “I’ll do it slow!”

Turning her head, Buffy saw Oz lounging against the doorframe behind Spike, taking it all in. Spike wore his human face once more. Instead of looking smug, Spike looked stricken. The threats Angel made were pretty terrible – flay him again? – so Buffy tried to catch the big vampire’s eye. “Angel!” she tried, louder.

This time, he heard. Angel stopped so abruptly, he swayed. “Buffy?”

She made a little gesture of ‘duh,’ but just raised her eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“You’re…” Angel spared her a bewildered look before his attention went back to Spike. “You have to invite me in. He’ll hurt you!”

“Angel. Calm down.”

Seeing the two of them in proximity, Spike’s heart sank. He covered, as he always did, by lifting his chin and giving Angel a defiant glare.

“Let me in!” His fists clenched and unclenched by his sides.

“I can’t,” Buffy said simply, her tone still soothing. “Mom’s house, Mom’s rules.”

Angel pointed a clawed finger at Spike. “Why is he in your house?”

Joyce moved into view, putting her hand on Buffy’s shoulder. She was so pleased that her daughter respected her decision. “Because Spike is my guest.”

“Buff--” 

“Angel. Lose the lumpies.” Buffy was watching him curiously. After Spike’s calm demeanor over the past few days, it was almost like seeing Angel as a vampire for the first time.

He gulped in a seething breath, then let it out, forcing the demon’s features away. 

Crossing her arms protectively over her chest, Buffy looked away from the intense look in his now-brown eyes. Taking a breath, she made herself say the words. “You didn’t look for me.”

“I thought you were dead.” Angel threw a venomous glance at Spike. “Because he killed you.”

“You thought.” She emphasized the last word. “But you didn’t know.”

Angel opened his mouth, then closed it. He deflated a bit. “That’s what he does,” he said sullenly. “He kills Slayers.”

Buffy felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder tighten. Without thought, she brought her own up to cover it. “But… You didn’t even look for me.”

His jaw jutted out to a mutinous angle, but he kept his voice even. “Buffy, can we talk? In private.”

She considered it, then nodded once. Turning to Joyce, Buffy gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll just be on the porch.”

Watching the Slayer slip through the door and close it behind her, Spike spun, looking for escape. He’d seen this scene play out too often with Drusilla; he already knew how it would end. He stalked to the kitchen, his coat flaring behind him. Just a he entered, the microwave beeped. Opening the door just to make the noise stop, the rich scent of warm animal blood hit his nose.

Behind him, Joyce moved past Oz and into the kitchen. “Ready for that cup of cocoa?” she asked calmly.


	12. Facing the Music

After closing the door behind her, Buffy didn’t say anything, just folded her arms across her chest. The silk shirt wasn’t enough against the cool November air.

It took a few seconds before Angel realized that Buffy wasn’t going to start. He sighed. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me, too.”

He turned his head to one side. The beginning, he thought. “I woke up on the floor of the alley behind the magic store. One of the vamps was trying to stake me, but I moved just in time. Your blood was all around me. You were gone. So was Spike. I knew from the scents that you’d been taken away in a car.”

“And you didn’t look for me.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I went to the factory to make sure your friends were all right.”

“But you didn’t tell them.”

“That you were dead? What could I say?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She uncrossed her arms to throw her hands up in the air. “You could have said, ‘Buffy’s missing. Let’s look for her.’”

Angel closed his eyes. “I made a mistake.”

“One that could have killed me. If I hadn’t been with Spike –”

“Why is he inside your house?”

“He’s been with me the past three days, Angel. We were locked in a room together. I was drugged. It made me weak. He was drugged, too. It, I don’t know, repressed his human side. He couldn’t shake off his game face or talk or anything.”

Angel went still. “He what?” he asked hoarsely.

“Funny thing,” Buffy said, a little heat in her voice. “His demon didn’t take advantage of it. They shackled me, but left him free. They left him neat toys like pliers and hammers, Angel.” She held her hands out again. “Instead of torturing me like they thought, he took care of the scrapes on my back, cleaned out the glass. He got the chains off me.”

“That’s…” Angel just stared at her. “That’s not possible.”

“For Angelus, no. Not possible. For Spike? No problem.”

“No.” He drew his head back. “That’s not… He’s a killer, Buffy.”

“You should know, shouldn’t you? That’s what you tried to make him into.” Just because she didn’t want to think about the implications of what he said about his family didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about it.

He picked up on one word. “Tried? No, Buffy, I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. He kills Slayers. Like you.”

“Yet he didn’t, did he? Tell me, Angel, what would you have done if the Mayor’s men took you instead? What if Angelus had me chained up with a hammer in the room?”

Angel opened his mouth and stumbled away a step. “That’s… I’m not him.”

“Okay.” Buffy sounded calm. She gestured at him. “You look good, Angel. You can take care of yourself now. You don’t need me. I won’t be coming around to the mansion anymore.”

“What?”

“What Spike said in the store… He’s right. We never were friends. What do we really have in common, Angel? I’m a fraction of your age. I’m not sophisticated; I don’t read philosophers or even understand any of it. You’ve never been comfortable at the Bronze or with my friends…” Buffy sighed. “It’s over. I guess it has been since my birthday.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, stunned. “I don’t accept that.”

Her brows drew together in disbelief. “You kinda have to.”

“We can be together again.”

Buffy let out her breath and looked at the porch. “I guess. All you have to do is tell me that your demon loves me.”

Angel just stared down at her, his mouth working. There was nothing to say to that; his demon had hated the goodness that radiated from her even before she’d sentenced them to hell. Nothing was happening the way it should. He went on the offense. “I’ve been thinking about leaving town. Going somewhere else, trying to do some good in the world.”

For Buffy, this was a gift; he’d be gone again, the face of the worst mistake she’d ever made out of her life. “I think that would be wonderful, Angel.” Buffy nodded in agreement with herself. “I think that’s what Whistler meant, that I would just… show you the way. You can make your own path now.”

In his shock, no words came to mind. She was supposed to argue with him, plead with him to stay. She loved him. She wanted him. Instead, Buffy gave him a small smile and slipped back inside, where he could not go. Angel stood frozen on the porch, unable to believe what just happened.

“I have a new bag of marshmallows,” Joyce said. Her voice was very calm as she reached for a pan to warm the milk. “What did Angel mean when he said you kill Slayers?”

Spike gripped his mug of warm beef blood hard and stared at the clean floor. “He meant that I’ve killed two Slayers, mum. Single combat,” and he hastily added, “not that it’s anything to brag about.”

From the doorway, Oz’s eyes grew wide. He made a gesture toward the living room and ducked into the hall. The level of awkward between him and Willow and Xander had just been dwarfed. 

“And Buffy?” Joyce asked, her voice still eerily calm.

“I didn’t come to Sunnydale for my third,” Spike said miserably, “but I wasn’t happy to learn there was a Slayer here, not with Drusilla so weak. I was looking for a cure for –”

“Yes, I know that. Did you really try to kill Buffy that night?”

“I… threatened her. Then, when we fought,” Spike let out a long sigh, “I couldn’t. I mean, I could have. You know that, mum. But I didn’t want to.”

Joyce looked at the pan in her hand, wondering if it was heavy enough to use as a weapon. Instead, she set it on the stovetop and turned to face the shamefaced vampire in her kitchen. “Why not? If you kill Slayers?”

“I didn’t rightly know, not at the time. Told myself it was because I so seldom had a real opponent, an equal. Told Dru it was because she always had backup, you, her friends.”

“But that isn’t the real reason, is it?”

Spike wasn’t a teenager; he’d worn the mantle of adult before her great-grandparents were born. Now he put down his mug and tilted his head to the side, meeting her implacable gaze. “You know?” His muscles pulled into a smile that didn’t show his teeth. “I only figured it out in the past few days. ’S’why I came back to Sunnyhell. Know that now. Don’t want to… chance not being here.”

“She’s seventeen.”

“Know that, mum. All too aware.”

Joyce nodded, pleased he was ‘ma’am-ing’ her in his cute British way. Her stern demeanor didn’t falter, though she went to the refrigerator for the milk. “Are you going to stay in ‘Sunnyhell?’”

“I am. ’M a good fighter, Joyce, better than most Slayers, faster than Buffy, and she’s one of the best. Gonna do everything I can to make sure she lives to a ripe old age.” He took an unnecessary breath. “I want her in this world.”

“So do I.” His declaration hit her where she lived; other people saw the Slayer, but it was her daughter out there every night fighting evil. Joyce wiped at her left eye, then her right before pouring in the milk, judging the quantity from experience. “What if she only wants to be your friend?”

“Haven’t had a friend in…” He trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “A friend would be quite something.”

Joyce turned to look at him, the handsome bad boy, the monster. “Two friends, William.” She took a couple of steps to the cabinet where she kept the cocoa. “And if you don’t mind some advice, you aren’t the only friend my daughter has. You have some bridges to build.”

“Hey, Oz,” Willow said, hopeful, as he came into the living room. He nodded at her, and the room fell into silence again. Neither Giles nor Xander tried to pretend they weren’t straining to hear what Buffy said to Angel on the porch.

Oz nodded before turning his head aside, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Willow, looking wounded, took a half step farther away from Xander.

The front door opened just enough for Buffy to slide inside. Giles, unrepentant, moved back to give her room. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “He says he’s leaving town.”

“What?” This clearly surprised the Watcher.

She shrugged. “He’s on his feet, sane and everything. He doesn’t need my help any longer, and he thinks he could do good elsewhere.”

“That’s… admirable,” Giles managed.

Buffy’s eyes went between the other three teenagers, holding Willow’s pleading gaze longest. “So,” she began, then immediately decided not to ask. Instead, she went back to the current crisis. “Um, Angel didn’t even mention that Spike and I were missing when he rescued you at the factory?”

“No.” Oz’s answer, a shake of his head, was even briefer. 

Willow had a bit more to say. “Angel didn’t. Rescue us, I mean. Oz and Cordelia already found us.”

“Oh. That’s good.” She looked between the three again, then at Giles. “It’s not good?”

“Joyce’s famous hot cocoa,” Spike said, walking carefully into the living room with a tray a cups. The interruption was welcome for most of the occupants. He set the drinks on the coffee table beside Buffy’s empty plate. When he straightened, he took a deep breath. “Reckon I owe you lot an apology.” Looking at Buffy’s face, he winced. That could have come out better.

Turning to face Willow, he waited until her wide eyes were on him. “I, uh, I’m sorry that I kidnapped you and threatened you. I was pretty drunk and not thinking real clear – not that it’s an excuse,” he added hastily. “But I scared you, and I’m sorry for that.”

He shifted his focus to Xander. “You were brave to try to defend your friend, and I’m sorry I coshed you. And,” Spike’s voice grew tight, “I owe you thanks, too. You saved Buffy’s life.” At the lad’s blank look, he prompted, “CPR?”

“Oh, right.” 

Everyone was watching him, making him feel uncomfortable. His brow furrowed. “Not real good at this,” he mumbled. “Uh, dogboy,” – Buffy cleared her throat loudly – “sorry – Oz?” When the guitarist nodded, Spike plowed on. “I’m sorry I caused you worry.” His eyes went to the Slayer like a sailor finding a beacon. “Is that it?” If there were more apologies to be made, he couldn’t think of them.

“I worried,” Giles said mildly.

Spike scoffed. “Yeah, well, won’t apologize for something that’s not my fault. I got captured right along with your Slayer.”

The Watcher’s eyebrows rose. “I-I suppose you’re correct.”

“She’s lucky. To have that, I mean, to have you lot. Nobody worrying about me.”

Buffy’s heart twisted at that bald statement. He was right, and he stated it as a fact, not because he was looking for sympathy. Without Drusilla, he was alone in the world. She did the only thing she could, gave him a nod of approval.

Joyce walked into the room, standing a couple of feet away from Spike. “No one wants hot chocolate?”

Her question seemed to free the Scoobies from the shock of a contrite Spike. The vampire turned to give her a grateful look, then he sauntered past her toward the kitchen. The rest of them got a cup from the tray, and they stood in silence, sipping gingerly at the hot liquid.

“I should think you’re ready for a rest,” Giles said to his charge.

Buffy looked torn. “I should probably patrol, since I’ve been out of commission the past –”

“Spike said he’d do it, honey,” Joyce put in.

She frowned. “He’s not up for it.”

Joyce lifted a shoulder. “He said he’d finish the blood that’s warmed up before he left.” She barely got out the last word when the sound of the kitchen door closing reached them.

“Why would Spike take your patrol?” Willow asked.

“He’s been cooped up, too,” Buffy said with a shrug. “He likes a fight.”

“Spike just apologized to me,” Willow said, her voice faint with disbelief.

Xander lifted his hand. “Does anyone else feel like they’ve entered The Twilight Zone?”

“We control the vertical,” Oz intoned.

“Nuh-uh,” Xander shot back without thought, “that’s Outer Limits.” Then he lowered his head, shamefaced. He didn’t have the right to banter with Oz, not anymore.

“Buffy, you can tell me more tomorrow after class –”

She moaned. “Oh, crap. Tomorrow is Monday. School.”

Giles went on as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I daresay you’d like to shower and rest in your own bed.”

“You have no idea,” she agreed emphatically. “Spike’s leather coat isn’t a great mattress, even folded double.”

They all absorbed this new tidbit in silence. Xander moved first, taking Buffy in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re home safe,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Oz didn’t come in for a hug, just inclined his head. “Welcome back.” He nodded at Mrs. Summers, too, and opened the door.

Willow pulled her best friend into a fierce hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Me, too.” In an undertone, Buffy asked, “What’s the sitch?”

“Tell you tomorrow,” she whispered back.

Giles was the last to leave, resting a hand on Joyce’s shoulder as he passed. She looked around the room and sighed before stacking cups and consolidating the dishes from the two trays on the table.

“Mom? Is it okay if I go to bed after I shower? I am kinda beat.”

Leaving the cleanup, Joyce wrapped her arms around her daughter. “That sounds fine. I haven’t slept much myself since I found out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s all over now.” Joyce put a kiss on Buffy’s head and let her go.

Spike caught up with Angel less than a block from Buffy’s house, but in all fairness, the old man was trudging along. “Oi,” he began. A second later, Angel had him pinned against a tree, his big hand doing its best to wrap around Spike’s throat.

The younger vampire expected this; he’d known Angelus’ usual moves by the time he was three. When he was six, he was fast enough to avoid most of them. Watching Angelus from his wheelchair, Spike had been surprised the big vampire hadn’t changed or adopted new moves. By now, he was by far the most experienced warrior and suspected his strength was equal to his grandsire. He wanted to test this theory, but now was not the time.

It didn’t keep him from getting his own hand beneath Angel’s, his fingers ready to break the older vampire’s bones. His arm was strategically across his chest, protection for his vulnerable heart. Spike’s feet were set as a base for a scissor kick that would immobilized Angel’s legs between his and take the older vampire down. He’d already won, and Spike couldn’t keep the sneer off his face.

“What did you do to her?” Angel snarled.

“Took care of her,” Spike said calmly. “The wankers figured I’d torture and kill her, so they left me loose.” He tilted his head, unable to keep from baiting the old man. “Reckon they mistook me for you.”

“No! What did you tell her? She’s… She’s not thinking straight.”

“What do you mean, she isn’t thinking straight?” Spike demanded. Spike didn’t have thrall or the ability to hypnotize, though Drusilla tried her best to teach him. “She’s exhausted, but the girl isn’t mental.” Angel loosened his grip. The second he eased up, Spike was gone, four paces away. “You’re s’posed to care about the Slayer, yeah? Well, put off your midnight brood and come with me. Might be able to help her.”

“What’s your scheme, Spike?”

The blond vampire rolled his eyes, impatient. “Know exactly where we were kept the past three days, you wanker. We left two guards behind, nice and ripe for the questioning. Thought maybe that would interest you?”

“They were after you, weren’t they? Why should I care?”

“Know you don’t care about me, you git. But the Slayer? She’s on their radar, too, or they woulda left her behind in that alley with you.”

Angel glowered at him. “Show me,” he growled after a long moment.

Well, thought Spike, at least he loves her more than he hates me. He jerked his head to the right and took off in that direction at quarter-speed. They were still five blocks away when they smelled smoke. The two Aurelian vampires’ eyes met, but they went on just to verify what they would find.

The drab building where Spike and Buffy were held was in flames. The fire department hadn’t been called in yet, and it was clear that by the time they got there, it would be too late to save any part of the structure.

Spike tucked his thumbs into his belt. “So much for that.”

“It was a good idea,” Angel said grudgingly. He turned his head to look at the blond man for a moment. “You should really leave town.”

“Aw, sweetheart, didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t care about you. I mean it will be safer for Buffy if you leave.” When Spike opened his mouth to speak, Angel overrode him. “She got captured because of you.”

“Not so sure it was all about me,” Spike countered. “They wanted me to kill her.”

“Because that’s what you do.”

Spike rounded on him. “That’s what I did.”

Angel scoffed. “Demons don’t change.”

“Yeah? Then why’d you work so hard to change me into a monster, Angelus?” he spat.

The bigger man’s eyes became a muddy yellow. “I’ve had about enough –”

Spike tilted his head, hearing approaching sirens. “Don’t give a toss what you’ve had enough of,” he said tightly, backing away a couple of steps. “Got things to do, granddad. Go back to your poncy estate and brood some more.”

Angel shook his head, watching Spike’s retreating back. The younger vampire didn’t call shadow to himself or anything, just marched off. He never did have any style. Turning back to watch the flames a moment more, he sighed. Buffy was alive, and of course he was grateful. But her presence complicated everything. Could anyone blame him for being a little sorry his plans were on hold now?


	13. Whatever It Takes

Spike made his way to his DeSoto, parked at the end of a residential street near downtown. He’d chosen the spot because of the shade of the surrounding trees. Absently brushing away part of a palm frond resting on the black metal, he opened the trunk and found a new black t-shirt. Doffing his coat, he unwound the bandages Buffy wrapped him in; his sentimental and practical sides agreed that he needed to keep the stained strips of fabric, and they went into the cavernous boot.

Once he was dressed again, he headed toward the docks. He waited outside the Fish Tank long enough to feed off three separate drunken humans as they staggered outside. He relieved two of them of their keys, watching them try to puzzle their way into locked cars in the lot. Really, he thought, he was doing a public service.

After tossing the keys onto a random table inside, he passed the third human weaving his way along the sidewalk. Spike was walking with purpose now, feeling better than he had in weeks. Giving the inebriated man a sidelong glance, he had to admit that slack-faced and slow-witted wasn’t a good look.

That didn’t keep him from ordering a shot of bourbon at Willy’s. He turned away from the smarmy barkeep and leaned against the bar, examining the crowd tonight. He had two names, Mr. Trick and Mayor Wilkins. Time to hunt down some information.

***

Buffy was sure she would sleep like the dead, with no dreams to worry her before her mother came to shake her awake. Instead, she found herself with open eyes in her dark room, lit only by the streetlight filtering through her curtains. Sitting up in bed, she listened for what woke her.

No. She didn’t need to listen; she only needed to feel. The tingles along her neck meant vampire, but she knew that this particular feeling meant Spike. He was back. Swinging her legs out of bed, she went to the door and opened it just as Spike stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

His blue eyes met hers and widened. “Buffy,” he blurted, surprised.

Sleepy though she was, the Slayer gave a mental fist pump that she’d been able to sneak up on him. The rest of Buffy was caught up in the sight of Spike wearing nothing but an aqua blue towel around his waist.

When Joyce offered to let him stay during their talk in the kitchen, he’d been grateful to remain near his mate. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was accepting the role of guest. Just before he strode out of the bathroom to the guestroom, where Joyce had hastily thrown a thick blanket over the curtain rod, he realized he should probably not be naked in public areas. Now he was both relieved and sorry for the last-minute thought. Buffy was still half-asleep and her reaction to him was all the more honest because of it. She was staring fixedly at him, her lips parted. “Surprised you’re awake, pet.”

She put her hand up, fingers touching the back of her neck. “Felt you. How was patrol?”

To be honest, Spike had no idea what she did on patrol. He knew she went through cemeteries, checking for newly risen vampires, but that was all. “I, uh, dusted four vamps.” They attacked him outside of the Alibi Room, unhappy that he’d been asking questions. “Went back by our prison. Someone burned it down.”

This woke her up. She took a step nearer. Spike’s eyes dropped to her unbound breasts beneath the thin camisole she wore. Buffy saw this and had a momentary urge to cross her arms, cover herself. It passed as something else stirred, a feminine pleasure that he liked looking at her. “I’ll let you get dressed, then you can tell me.” She went past him into the bathroom.

Spike stood in the hallway, his eyes shut tight. Joyce’s guest, he reminded himself firmly, and went into the spare bedroom, leaving the door partly open.

Buffy washed her hands, then put her damp fingers over her face, hoping the droplets of water would wake her up. She dried her hands and face, and as she put the towel back, she saw her mother’s olive oil dispenser sitting on the vanity. Frowning, she shook her head and went into the hallway. Spike wasn’t there, but his door was open. It was her home, her safe place, so she didn’t hesitate to go inside.

Spike was wearing jeans now and had left the damp towel hanging on the inside doorknob. Buffy looked at where he sat on the bed, the lamp beside her mother’s sewing machine throwing him into a spotlight. Her gaze caught on his damp curls, and she suddenly smiled. “You use olive oil because of the bleach.”

He gave her a half smile in return and nodded. “Prefer coconut oil, when I can get it.”

Buffy sat next to him gingerly. Spike turned to face her, the movement taking him a couple inches farther away. She scooted closer to make up the distance, her fingers going to his bare torso. “You’re all healed up,” she marveled.

“Yeah. The blood that dog– er, Oz got for me. An’ I fed off three people tonight. They’re all just fine,” he added hastily.

She thought of how slowly Angel healed on his diet of animal blood with the rare shot of bagged human. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And that he hadn’t killed anyone. Buffy changed the subject. “So, someone burned down the building.” Her expression was troubled. “Do you think they got the guards out?”

Spike shrugged, not having enough information to take a guess. “The fire trucks came while we were there. Should be something in the newspaper tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “‘We?’”

“Angelus – I mean, Angel was still in the neighborhood. I took him with me. He’s better at getting information out of…” Spike trailed off as he saw her eyes widen in horrified understanding. He moved his focus to the door. “Sorry. Uh, didn’t occur to me that it isn’t something...”

“The good guys don’t torture people.”

He ducked his head. “Haven’t been a ‘good guy’ for a long while, love. Bit rusty.”

This caught Buffy’s attention. The Council’s records said that William the Bloody was a murderous ruffian before he was turned by the Scourge. “You were a good guy?” When he answer, she prompted, “What were you like as a human? Because I don’t think you were a street thug.”

His expression was helpless, hunted. After a moment, he sighed and met her eyes. “I was a poet.”

“A poet?” Buffy thought of his beautiful words about her blood being a symphony.

Spike lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t know the first thing about fighting – violence appalled me. Don’t know that I was ‘good,’ but I tried to be. I… was a gentleman, at least.”

He was so vulnerable as he opened up to her; she could see it in his eyes. Buffy reached for his hand. “Before I got Chosen, I was a shallow Valley girl. I’d never been on the outside before, never been alone. I changed a lot after that, learned I didn’t have any real friends. I have some now. Maybe I’m a better person.”

“You’re the best person I know.”

She grinned, lifting the heavy mood. “You know, like, five people. Not a real high bar.”

He smiled back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He squeezed her fingers, feeling a little dizzy, wanting to anchor himself. She knew so much about him now, and she still hadn’t rejected him. This was going to be so hard to give up, and it was all too likely he’d have to, once Angel began to work on her. “I, um, I’m sorry for going back for the guards, for thinking to unleash Angelus on them.”

Buffy frowned. “I can’t believe he went with you. I mean, you guys really don’t like each other.”

He drew in a breath. “I’m trying to make up to your friends.” He compressed his mouth for a second. “Joyce recommended it.”

“Mom gives good advice,” Buffy agreed, “but Angel isn’t one of my friends.”

“No. He’s your snuggly bear,” Spike sighed.

“He is not,” Buffy declared. “I told him it was over out on the porch tonight. Not that it ever really was, not since…” She sighed, too. “I guess what I’m saying is that I’m footloose and fancy free. You don’t have to ‘make up’ to Angel.”

Spike was staring at her now, happiness added to that incredible mix of wonder and love. His other hand joined the first, clasping her fingers in his. “I, uh, I’m glad to hear that.”

His gentle statement was so at odds with what was in his eyes. Buffy had never really been the aggressor in a relationship; guys pursued her and she reeled them in. Well, maybe she’d pursued Angel a little during the off parts of his on-and-off pursuit of her. But she knew that Spike wasn’t going to push, not after what happened with his dream.

“Since you aren’t in love with Drusilla,” and she watched to see if he had any reaction to her words, “and I’m not in love with Angel, do you think maybe,” she leaned closer to the still form of the vampire, “it would be all right if I kissed you good night?”

“More’n all right.” His gaze was soft and fixed on her as he leaned forward.

Their lips brushed for a bare second. Buffy’s warm breath fanned across his mouth, and Spike came in again, a bee seeking nectar. Another light caress. She tilted her face, so he let go of her hands and captured her waist, drawing her against him so she wouldn’t have to stretch.

Buffy pressed against him, her hands on his shoulders. Their bodies were straining closer, even as the kiss continued soft and gentle. He parted his lips – finally! – and it became so much more real, with the taste of him, the slide of his tongue against hers.

Then his forehead was pressing against hers, and he’d turned his face partly away. “Better stop, kitten,” he gasped.

“But…”

“Too good, love. God, what you do to me.” He lifted his head to examine her, wanted to make sure she understood. “I don’t want to stop, Buffy – kissing you is amazing – but I will. Already messed up tonight, but I know better than to abuse my privilege as guest in your mother’s home.”

Buffy’s grip on his shoulders tightened, not wanting him to pull away. “We can’t just kiss?”

“Alone on a bed with the woman I love?” He shook his head emphatically.

And then it struck her how safe she felt. She was in her own home in the arms of man who’d already declared his love. He didn’t have any of that security. She didn’t love him, barely knew him. “You’re right. I’m just,” she gestured vaguely, “all with the hormones. I should go.”

“You should.” His hands didn’t move from her waist.

“Maybe we could try this again. On the couch or something.” A blinding smile covered his face, making Buffy squeal. “You have dimples!”

The smile immediately became a scowl. “Do not.” Then his eyes went past her. “Your mum’s awake,” he warned in a low voice.

Her hazel eyes rounded. “Good night, Spike.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and was gone.

“Everything okay?” Joyce asked, pulling her robe around her as she came into the hallway.

“Fine,” Buffy said, closing Spike’s door. “He just got in. I woke up to go to the bathroom.” Her mother’s expression was bordering on a frown, so Buffy went into Slayer mode. “He told me about patrol and,” she made a face, “that the prison where we were kept has been burned down.”

“Burned!” Joyce exclaimed. Behind Buffy, the thin line of light that came from beneath the door of the guest room shut off, so she lowered her voice. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“I don’t either.” She walked to her mother and put her arms around her. “I’m so glad to be home.”

“I’m so glad you’re safe.” She kissed her daughter’s hair. “Try to get some more sleep, though. School tomorrow.”

“Spike woke me up,” she admitted. “Vampire tingles, the Slayer thing that lets me know they’re near.”

Joyce’s eyebrows rose. “Huh.”

Buffy shrugged. “I knew it was just him, though. Thank you for letting him stay for a while. He really doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

***

Spike slept hard, not waking until Joyce returned from the gallery the next evening. He pulled on a t-shirt, ducked into the bathroom for a dab of gel and a comb, and then went downstairs. “Afternoon, Joyce. How was work?” He set the glass olive oil dispenser on the counter.

Puzzled, she stared at the bottle a moment. “It went fine. How did you sleep?”

“Very well. It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve been in for a while.”

“Lot of hotels?” she asked sympathetically.

“Uh, no. Been sleepin’ in my car.”

“Is that the old one from the fifties at the curb?”

“It is.”

“Have you had it long?”

“Um, no, mum.” He’d stolen it, actually. “Did drive one like it when they were new, though.” She was still looking at the olive oil, as if unsure whether she should touch it. “Hope you don’t mind. I used a dab of it on my hair. The bleach dries it out.”

“Oh!” Her brow cleared, and she reached for the dispenser and put it back where it belonged. 

It took Spike a moment before it occurred to him what else a male might want with oil. “Joyce!”

Her face flamed as the vampire chuckled. “What?” she said innocently, brazening it out. “I’m grilling chicken for dinner. Does that sound all right?”

***

“No bodies,” Buffy said with a sigh of relief, putting down the paper on the library table. The building destroyed by fire was second page news. It was abandoned and belonged to the city due to forfeiture over property taxes.

“That is a relief,” Giles said. He wasn’t as sure as Buffy that the guards were still alive, but he didn’t want to burden her with his suspicions. “I still can’t believe Spike didn’t kill them.”

“Well, the night Kendra died, when the police were looking for me because they thought I did it? Spike knocked out a policeman. He started to kill him, and I told him no. He stopped then.” Buffy pursed her lips. “Well, he did want to kill the guard who had the wooden bullet gun.”

“I imagine that taking two rounds in the chest would, er, irritate him.”

“No, it wasn’t that. The guard shot at me.” Her eyes widened as she turned away, focusing on a book in a language she couldn’t read.

Giles knew immediately that she’d revealed something new. “Why would that be of concern to Spike?”

She put on her very best lie-to-adults face. “Because he sees me as his friend. Like, his only friend. Ever since we made the truce.”

“And he kidnaps and threatens his friend’s friends?”

“Hey, I didn’t say he was good at it,” she admitted. “It’s going to take a lot of practice.”

“I still can’t quite believe he apologized to them.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, relieved he was letting her admission go. “That was all Mom. She’ll have him wearing pastel polo shirts and driving a Volvo if he stays much longer.”

Giles stiffened at this reminder. “And you really trust him alone in the house with your mother?”

Buffy turned to face him fully. “He could have killed me, Giles, at any point we were locked in that room. He didn’t. Spike… took care of me.”

“Maybe he needs that,” her Watcher mused. “He did take care of a madwoman all those years.”

Buffy didn’t like being lumped into a category with Drusilla. “I think he’s just… different, somehow. He didn’t go into any detail, but he said basically he had to get tough quick after she turned him, if he wanted to survive in that family.”

Giles turned his head aside, resisting this point of view like a toddler avoiding a spoonful of green vegetables. “That isn’t how vampirism works, Buffy, and you know it.”

“I’m not saying that vampires are misunderstood creampuffs,” she said, putting her hands up in a peaceable manner. “I’m just saying that… Maybe there are vampires who have the capacity for good, just like there are humans with souls who are psychopaths or serial killers.”

“Yes, but Spike is a serial killer.”

She turned away from this fact in turn. “But he isn’t a psychopath.” Buffy stood abruptly. “I better get home for dinner, then I really have to get back to patrol.”

“Stop by here afterwards? I’m going to go through my notes on your imprisonment, and I’ll no doubt have questions.” Giles voice softened. “And I would like to be reassured of your safety.”

“No problem.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, flustering him. He gave her a little grin, which faded as she added, “Xander has an English test tomorrow, so I think he’s meeting Wil here to study after they eat.” Buffy made a face. “Can you believe what they were doing?”

“Er, yes, actually.”

“You knew?”

“I thought they were acting oddly. It didn’t come as a surprise.”

“Xander’s never getting Cordy back.” She sighed. “And I don’t know if Willow can get back with Oz, either.”

***

Spike helped Joyce prepare supper. He begged off actually eating it, wanting to get an early start on his night, but not before she made him agree be there for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. Walking outside, he lit a cigarette, inhaling happily. She didn’t approve of smoking, certainly not inside her house. Being a guest already chafed.

Not that he gave a toss. Buffy kissed him.

He savored that memory for a moment. His mate was choosing him. It wasn’t a union, not yet, but Buffy kept moving toward him, so many more steps closer than he ever expected. Spike was sorry that he, as it turned out, lied to Joyce. He couldn’t be satisfied with being just Buffy’s friend, not now.

Flicking his cigarette to the sidewalk, he jumped up in the air, just to stomp down on the ember and work off some of his high spirits. His duster rode easy on his shoulders as he strode along. Right now, he had places to go and people to see, and Buffy was the sole reason for these plans.

Spike’s first stop was a loft apartment above an empty warehouse. He did his reconnaissance from a nearby rooftop, then drew shadow close as he walked the perimeter, listening for the buzz of security cameras and searching for tripwires. He settled on a dramatic entrance, returning to the roof so he could wrap his coat over his face and launch himself through a window.

Two vampires jerked awake as glass showered on the floor, sitting up in a large bed. Spike drove a stake into the female vampire even as he laid a thin wire across the other’s neck. In less than a second, he was behind the vampire, both hands on the end of the garrote. “Well, well, Mr. Trick. From the smell of it, you’re the one who hauled me to that prison. Reckon we need to have a conversation about that.” Spike gripped the ends of the wire in one hand and wrapped his arm around Mr. Trick’s neck. 

It took a while for the pressure points on a vampire’s neck to work, but the body was still basically human. While the other vampire was unconscious, he tied him to a sturdy chair with the enchanted ropes Spike had to use to restrain Drusilla so often. Then he smoked another cigarette as he waited for Mr. Trick to waken.

The timing worked really well, as he was just finishing his ciggie when Trick groaned. He reached into one of the deep inner pockets of his duster and brought out the garden shears he’d taken from Joyce’s shed. 

“Really like your setup here,” he said, when he was sure Mr. Trick was alert. “Lease it, do you?”

“Lease? What do you take me for? I own this.”

“Who’d you buy it from?” No answer. “Oh, like that, is it? Your boss gave it to you. Who is this boss, exactly?” Again, no answer. Right, then. Time for a Big Bad monologue.

“We’re near indestructible, we vamps.” Spike pulled the long blades apart and snapped them back together, a nice, loud snick. But it does take sooo long to grow some parts back.” Spike gave the bound vampire a wolf’s smile. “Knew a bloke in Leeds who lost his nose. Almost four months. Know of one sad vamp in Bruges who lost a breast to a Ghora demon. Almost a year.” He worked the blades again. “Now, dunno how long it takes to grow back a digit, but I hear,” Spike’s teeth gleamed, the brightest thing in the dim apartment, “it’s over a year for your bollocks.” Snick. “So, Mr. Trick, which part would you miss the most?”

Pulled from his bed naked, the bound, vulnerable vampire struggled. “Fuck off!”

The blond vampire tutted. “Guess I’ll just have to pick something and see how much you protest.” He snipped off part of the sheet from the bed and stuffed it into Trick’s mouth. “Any time you want to talk instead of scream, I’ll take that out.”

One ear, one toe, and a judicious positioning of the garden shears on Mr. Trick’s groin later, Spike had the information he needed. “Thanks, mate.” He took the stake from his coat, and Mr. Trick was scattered across the floor before he had time to widen his eyes. The ropes fell in loose coils around the chair.

His senses assuring him that he was now alone, Spike wandered around the apartment. Big bedroom, big bathroom, an open floorplan with a kitchen area and a conversation pit. All of the windows covered with automatic blinds. And, best of all, currently unoccupied. Once he got the window fixed and added more security, it would be a good lair.

The good guys don’t torture people.

Spike shrugged off the twinge of conscience. Well, he wasn’t a good guy yet, just working toward it, and she hadn’t specifically asked him not to torture. Besides, Spike wasn’t sure she counted vampires as people. And, truthfully, it didn’t matter. Someone was targeting Buffy, and now he had a name. Someone had ordered that she be captured and drugged, left vulnerable and shackled. He would do whatever was needed.

No one got away with hurting his mate.

***

Buffy yawned. She still needed to catch up on sleep and being in a quiet library wasn’t helping her stay awake, especially post patrol. Right now, she was just waiting for Xander and Willow to finish their homework so she could walk them home. Giles was in his office, making an outline of what he wanted to put in his official Watcher’s Journal. Buffy knew he was irritated that he hadn’t had the chance to interrogate Spike, so that was something she had to arrange. Maybe they could talk about it before Thanksgiving dinner. Both were invited, and she couldn’t see Spike watching American football as he waited for turkey any more than Giles would.

Her head came up, eyes on the door. There was a vampire outside, but not the vampire she wanted to see. “Angel’s here,” she informed everyone, her voice steady.

“Uh, hi,” he said after opening one of the library doors. Angel’s eyes went to Buffy. “How are you tonight?”

“Okay. Better.” She could feel the hostility of the other three as they looked at the big vampire, Jenny Calendar’s ghost almost palpable.

He put his hands in his pockets and took a few steps closer, his eyes on the floor. “The prison where –”

“Burned down,” she finished. “Spike told me.”

“Oh.” Angel cleared his throat and looked up, his expression sorrowful and appealing as a puppy. “Sounds like you’re on top of things.”

Giles stepped to the checkout desk. “Why are you here, Angel?”

“I, uh,” he turned away from Buffy but didn’t quite meet the Watcher’s eyes, “I’m looking for Faith.”

“Faith? Why?”

Before he could answer, the sound of a deep voice in the hallway reached them. A nervous-looking, balding man of middle years stumbled through the doors, his arms loaded with oversized books. Spike was behind him with another stack of books in one arm. With his free hand, he shoved the human, propelling him to the first table. Xander and Willow both stood from their seats at the next table, moving automatically away from the newcomers.

“Put them there,” he ordered, setting down his own pile. Spike’s focus was on Buffy immediately. “’Lo, pet.”

“Who is this man?” Giles asked sharply, looking between the blond vampire and the man who certainly seemed to be his captive.

“I-I’m Deputy Mayor Allan Finch,” the nervous man managed.

“Mayor, now,” Spike said, still looking at Buffy. “That’s who was behind it, Mayor Richard Wilkins. He was behind ‘Slayerfest,’ too, and a bloody hell of a lot more.”

The Slayer stood up, her eyes on the human. “Why is he here?”

“Got a lot to tell us, he does.” Spike prodded the man’s shoulder with a finger. “We have time, though. Mostly, he wanted to help me get these ledgers here. Record of everything the Mayor’s been planning.”

“Planning?” Giles echoed.

Spike smirked and tucked his thumbs in his belt. “All scuppered now. Body’s gonna be found in a car wreck off the coast tomorrow, and Mayor Finch here will take over. He’s happy to work –”

Buffy’s face was pale. “You killed Mayor Wilkins?” Oh, no. He’d already failed.

“Well, yeah. He hurt –”

“You killed a human,” Angel said, more satisfaction than anger in his voice. Willow and Xander exchanged worried glances.

“Wilkins wasn’t human,” Finch said in the ensuing silence. “Not anymore. He’s been the mayor in Sunnydale for decades. Richard Wilkins, Richard Wilkins, Jr., and now Richard Wilkins III. Same guy. He never ages. Aged.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, but you were on his list. He needed to get rid of the Master,” the new Mayor nodded at Spike, “and the Slayers before his planned Ascension.”

“Master?” Angel spat in disbelief.

“Ascension?” Giles echoed, reaching for his glasses. “Dear lord.”

“You took him out?” Buffy asked, her eyes on Spike.

“Well, yeah. Got his top minion first, Mr. Trick, the vamp who nabbed us. Recognized his scent once I tracked him down. He, uh, told me everything I needed to get into city hall.” Spike nodded at Finch. “Ran into his nibs here.” He grinned. “He helped me gather this evidence and dispose of the other.”

“Dick wanted to sell my soul,” Finch said. He was sweating; the evening hadn’t been easy on him. “He terrified me. I didn’t know where to turn. Spike tells me that you’ll help.”

“Help, how?” Buffy asked.

“Save Sunnydale.” The balding man swallowed. “Wilkins owed tribute to a lot of demons, and he’d been calling in favors ahead of his Ascension.” He opened up one of the large books. “It was scheduled for May, during a speech he was going to give at graduation.”

“Our graduation?” Xander asked. He hoped it would be his graduation, anyway.

“Yes, the Sunnydale High graduation ceremony.” Finch’s finger rested on the month in Wilkins’ large calendar. “We’re really lucky; he would become invulnerable for a hundred days in February. There wasn’t much time left, and I really didn’t know who to trust.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open a as Finch gave Spike a grateful look. Giles’ eyebrows rose, Willow shook her head in disbelief, and Angel looked positively gobsmacked.

Giles put his pristine glasses back on, hooking the earpieces on one at a time. “How did you find out about this, Spike?”

“Didn’t, did I? Just went to Willy’s to find out who was off their bird enough to mess with me and the Slayer. Trick sang like the proverbial canary, and,” he shrugged, “turned out Wilkins gave the order. All I needed to know.” Spike’s intense gaze was on Buffy. “Slayer’s safe now.”

The conversation faded as Buffy lost herself in the warmth and satisfaction she could read in his eyes. She wasn’t safe, of course, and never would be. But she had no doubt she was safer with Spike watching her back. No one, not Giles, not Angel, had ever done more to ensure she was free to slay. Someone was finally helping her with her mission.

Buffy had a feeling she wouldn’t approve of whatever methods he used, but Mr. Trick and Mayor Wilkins were out of the picture now. They were the kind of enemies she never faced on the battlefield, because they’d send minions in their place. Like the Master and Angelus, they would only face her when the game was rigged in their favor. She hadn’t really known how much of a danger they were, hidden in the shadows. Spike brought evidence and even a witness to prove he wasn’t wrong. 

And she knew without a doubt that he’d done it because she’d been captured, not to avenge his own imprisonment.

She didn’t say anything or move toward him, but he must have seen something of her thoughts in her eyes. Spike sent her an uncertain smile before ducking his head and breaking eye contact. Buffy gave her head a slight shake and started paying attention again, just in time to hear Giles muttering something about the Ascension and an Old One. Right now, she had to be the Slayer, but tonight Buffy was going to talk to her houseguest.


	14. Folding in

“Do you have homework?” Joyce asked as Buffy came into the kitchen. Her daughter was wearing knit pants and a t-shirt instead of pajamas.

“No.” Buffy picked up a towel and began drying dishes. She didn’t know why her mother always tried to get the kitchen spotless before big holidays. It would just need a major cleaning again. “Xander’s English teacher is the only one who’s being awful this week. Most of the student body is already out for the holiday, and we only have school half the day on Wednesday.” Neither Cordelia nor Oz had been in school. Buffy didn’t blame them.

“I just wondered why you aren’t ready for bed.” Joyce slid a platter into the rinse water.

“I need to talk to Spike when he gets back. Slayer stuff.” She saw her mother raise an interested brow as she fished out the platter. It was hot against her fingertips. Buffy told her what she knew, which took longer than the chore.

Joyce joined her at the counter, frowning. “I met the Mayor. I found him… glib. Superficial.” Shaking her head, she went on. “It’s hard to believe he wasn’t human, though. I just thought he was a politician.”

“Type of reptile?” Buffy joked. 

Her mother gave her a faint smile for the effort. “So… he was a danger, specifically to you.”

“And Spike. And my graduating class.” She wrinkled her nose. “Apparently, to fuel the change, he had to have a big meal right after assuming his giant new form.” Joyce’s expression was horrified, so Buffy hurried to reassure her. “Which won’t happen now.”

“And the deputy mayor was still talking when you left?”

Nodding, Buffy yawned. “Wilkins had approved some construction project near UC-Sunnydale that he wanted to use as his underground lair. That was Giles. Spike was, I kid you not, making a calendar of when various demons come to town for tribute.”

“So he can kill them?”

Her mouth flattened. “So we can kill them.”

Joyce gave her daughter a pleading look. “Maybe it’s a sign, Buffy. First Faith comes to town, now Spike… Maybe you really can step away from slaying.”

“Mom… We’ve talked about this.” She stood straight and looked toward the darkness out of the window.

Joyce sighed. “I know. At least you applied to Northwestern. And,” she added, bemused, “the University of Kentucky.”

“National cheerleading champs four years in a row,” Buffy pointed out. “Hey, a girl can dream.”

“Honey, strong as you are, you could play on a collegiate football team,” Joyce teased, then added a more serious, “so you might as well apply to USC.”

Buffy groaned. Before she could get out a rejoinder, the kitchen door opened. “Evening, ladies,” Spike said. He looked diffident, which sat oddly on him. “Uh, Joyce, reckon it would be all right if I did my laundry here?”

“Of course, Spike. Everything is downstairs.” She motioned toward the basement door. 

Framed as he was against the outside darkness and wearing black, they hadn’t noticed he was carrying a bundle of his black clothes. “Thank you very much, mum.” 

“Giles finally let you guys go?” Buffy asked, as Spike closed the door behind him.

“He took Finch home with him. I’ll arrange some security for our new mayor tomorrow.” He turned back to Joyce, cleared his throat, and darted a quick glance at Buffy. “’Preciate your hospitality, if I haven’t said it before. Found a place to stay, so I won’t be in your way much longer.”

Joyce’s eyebrows rose. “You aren’t at all in the way. You don’t need to rush and end up in a bad lease or something, just because it’s available.”

“No, this place… It’s a good fit for a vamp, and it sort of fell into my lap.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a minute smile. “But not ’til this weekend. Promised to help chop the veg for Turkey Day, yeah?”

“Oh, speaking of Thanksgiving…” Joyce turned to the cabinets. “I grocery shopped for the feast tonight after dinner and found this for you.” She turned back to him, holding out a jar of coconut oil.

Spike stood still a moment, clutching his laundry, before ducking his head. “Oh. That was most kind of you, mum. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll just put it here on the counter,” she said. “I’ll say good night; I know Buffy wants to hear about the rest of what the deputy mayor had to say.”

Her daughter gave her a hug and a kiss, then she went to open the basement door for Spike, clicking on the lights. Buffy followed him down the steps, then stood behind him with her arms crossed as he figured out the dials and which products to add. When he finally turned around, she let him have it.

“You’re leaving? Already?”

He looked confused. “No. Just found a place to stay.”

“Here? In Sunnydale.”

“Of course.”

She softened a little. “Oh.”

Spike turned his head to the side, his eyes shut tight and his jaw clenched for a moment. “She bought coconut oil. For me.” Then he faced Buffy. Pointing overhead, he ground out, “That woman up there opened her home to me and has been more of a friend to me than anyone since my own mother. And all I can think of,” and he moved with vampire strength and speed, sitting Buffy atop the washing machine and moving between her thighs, “is ravishing her daughter. Feel like a right wanker, love.”

Somehow, her hands had settled on his shoulders. “Oh,” she said again.

“Want a place where we can be alone.” His voice went nearly subsonic on the words.

Buffy looked at him solemnly. “Show me your dimples again.”

Spike huffed out a little laugh and, helpless before her, broke into a smile. “Whatever you want. Can give you that, easy. Hard not to smile around you.” He was glad she’d broken the mood.

“When can I see this new place?”

“This weekend. You can decorate it, love, throw pillows,” he leaned in for a kiss, “rugs,” another soft kiss, “sheets for the bed.” A much more thorough kiss.”

“Mmmph,” she pulled away, her brows drawing together. “No, wait. I’m mad at you.” She smacked his shoulder. “You took out the bad guys tonight without me.”

Spike blinked at her, his lips still slightly bowed from the interrupted kissing. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, bloody hell! Sorry, love. Wasn’t thinking.” He shrugged. “Just not used to having backup.”

“Well, get used to it.” Buffy frowned. “And you’re my backup, okay?”

“Been thinkin’ about that, kitten.” He gave her a little grin. “Well, no, I haven’t, but when Finch mentioned ‘Master,’ made me think. You want me to, I’ll do it.”

Buffy waved a vague hand. “Do…?”

“Step up and be the Master. Hold Sunnydale in your name.”

‘Master’ was still a loaded word, even after all this time. It took a few seconds before his second sentence sank in. “What does that even mean?”

“Means the demon community formally recognizes you as the ultimate power on the Hellmouth. You have dominion over everything; I’d have dominion over the demons. Have to have minions, do a bit of drudgery, sit as judge, rot like that, but,” he shrugged, “also should get information about newcomers and planned rituals a lot easier.”

Buffy’s brows were drawn together. “I’m still not sure what any of that means. What would I have to do?”

He shrugged. “Attend one meeting, I would think. After that, you… just do what you already do.”

She was examining him closely now. “Why did he call you the Master?”

“Reckon it’s because I killed the Anointed One. Didn’t try to solidify the claim, since I figured I’d leave –”

“You killed the Anointed One?”

His brows rose at her whispered question. “Yeah. Right after our first fight.”

Buffy grabbed him into a hug. “I never knew that.”

“Well,” he said, bewildered, patting her back, “woulda come claimed my prize before, I’d known it would be this nice.”

She drew away, studying him for a moment. “You don’t need me to be the Master. I mean, you already are.”

“Have the strongest claim, but,” he shrugged, “why would I want that aggro? Just thought it might make things a little easier for you, is all.”

Buffy gave him a helpless look of her own. “See, that’s just it. Nobody… I mean, not even Giles… Thank you,” she finished.

One of his hands left her waist and came up to stroke her cheek. “You’re welcome.” He gave her a positively wicked, open-mouthed smile. “You can repay me in kisses.”

“I can deal with that,” Buffy murmured, bringing her mouth to his. 

In Spike’s opinion, it was an absolutely brilliant snogging session, which should have been capped off with a shag atop a washing machine vibrating through a spin cycle. Buffy, unfortunately, hadn’t seen old pornos – and probably not new ones, either – and started giggling when the machine began shaking beneath her.

“Here, let me get off,” she said, pushing again his chest so she could hop down.

“Would like nothing better,” he muttered, but he backed away as she requested. He took her in his arms once more, his face serious. “You see why, kitten? Why I can’t stay in your mum’s house, not with all these impure thoughts about her daughter. Too impulsive. Bugger things up; I know I will.” He gazed into her jade-colored eyes. “’S’not because I don’t want to be close to you…” Spike swallowed, distracted from nobility. “You have the most beautiful eyes, full of the purest light I’ve seen in all my long years. Angels must envy the good conveyed by your every glance.”

She gaped at him for a few seconds before trying to reply. “I-I like your eyes, too. They’re… blue and stuff.” Buffy pulled away from Spike, covering her face. “God, I’m so mentally challenged! You, all with the suave and the words, and I sound exactly like an awkward teen.” She peeked at him through her fingers. “Which I guess I am, huh?”

“Can’t agree about the awkward part, love. ’Ve seen you fight.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t feel it when we’re together, but sometimes I’m painfully aware how young you are, yeah.” He didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Not because of your very fine compliment about my blue eyes.”

“I’ll be eighteen in January.” She met his blue eyes boldly.

“Just a day on the calendar.”

Her eyes slid away. “It’s not like I’m a virgin.”

Some kind of tension and power coming off Spike zinged her Slayer senses. He closed his eyes and his fists before he saw her stiffen in response to his anger. “That’s got nothing to do with innocence, either.” He let out a breath, regaining control over his temper. “Love, I know it’s the pinnacle of hypocrisy, coming from a vamp who’s tried to kill you, but I want you to keep every moment of your youth that you can.”

“How old were you when Drusilla sired you?”

“Twenty-six.”

Buffy put her hands on her hips. “I’m not waiting eight years!”

“Not asking you to – bleeding sack of hammers I’d be, keeping away from you that long!”

She started laughing, defusing the tension. “Do you want me to be your girlfriend, Spike?”

The word sounded ridiculous to his ears, but it did nothing to keep the warmth inside him from spreading into every corner. “Yeah,” he said, soft and husky. “I’d like that.”

Buffy back a couple steps toward the stairs. “Then you should ask me sometime.” She grinned impishly. “Good night, Spike.”

“Good night, love,” he replied, his answering grin rather stunned. “Sleep well.”

***

“How did the test go?” Buffy asked Xander as he brought his tray over to the table where she already sat, poking unenthusiastically at her food. She figured it was a great opportunity to get his take on the Willow kissage.

“Eh.” Xander seesawed his hand before contemplating the tray in front of him. “Why do they give us pressed turkey roll and dehydrated potatoes just before we have the grocery store prefab ‘complete Thanksgiving dinner for $19.99?’ Because even that is better than this.”

“Come over around four on Thursday,” Buffy encouraged him. “Mom’s making homemade pies tomorrow. We’re having both turkey and ham. I get to mash the potatoes with my Slayer strength, so you know they’ll be creamy. No lumps at all.” She lifted her spoon and let grainy potatoes drip back onto the tray.

“Who’s going to be there?” Xander asked suspiciously.

“Me and Mom, Giles, Faith unless she ditches, and Spike.”

“Aaaand that’s where you lost me.”

“He did apologize,” she said mildly.

“I apologize when I bump into somebody in the hallway. He kidnapped us.” Xander touched his head. “I’m still tender.”

“And he thanked you for what you did with the Master,” Buffy plowed on. The two friends regarded each other for a long moment. “When I told him that I died down there, he cried.”

“Sorry that it wasn’t him who did it?”

Buffy pushed away her tray. “No, and you know that. He…” She let out a sigh. “I think I should have paid more attention to what you had to say about Angel.”

“He – What?” Xander asked, thrown by this.

“I never got to know Angel, not really. I’d ask questions, he’d tell me he felt too guilty to give me answers. He said he was sent here to help, but mostly he just dropped cryptic warnings and then it was all, exit stage left.”

“Exit, pursued by a bear.” The stage direction from Shakespeare’s “A Winter’s Tale” was one of the few things Xander could quote outside of pop culture. He had an intensely entertaining mental image of Angel being chased off by a grizzly, the seat of his pants torn by a swipe of long claws.

“Uh, sure,” Buffy said. “Whatever. I’m just saying, I should have paid attention to your opinion. I don’t know if it would have changed my mind –”

“It wouldn’t.”

“– but you had valid concerns. So, now I’m asking you to listen to my opinion.” She shrugged. “Spike’s not so bad.”

“I just don’t understand. It hasn’t even been a full week. What changed his mind and made him want to join the good guys?”

Buffy had a moment of silent panic before an acceptable reason came to her. “Drusilla dumped him. After all he’d done for her, she kicked him out.” She started to mention that the vampiress had cheated on Spike, but remembered in time that Xander had just cheated. “He’s willing to be on our side, since the other side dropped him.” What else could she say, without telling him the real reason? He’d know within a week, anyway. Neither she nor Spike could hide their feelings. “And you know how my mom never liked Angel? She liked Spike, when he came to the house to make that truce with me. I trust her judgement.”

Xander fake coughed. “Ted!”

She gave him a dark look. “You liked him, too. Mom was just as drugged as the rest of you.”

Xander sighed. “Buffy… I just can’t. Not after Angel.”

The Slayer closed her eyes for a moment. “I get it, I do. Letting someone that dangerous get close to you again.” She put out an impulsive hand and covered his for a second. “Come to dinner anyway. It doesn’t have to mean you approve. Okay?”

He melted. “I won’t promise anything, but if the Harris family Thanksgiving festivities are worse than average, a bloodsucking vampire might be an improvement.”

So much for getting Xander’s side of the cheating story. When Willow never showed up for lunch, Buffy went looking for her, first in the library, then in the girl’s bathrooms. She found her friend in one of the stalls in the restroom near the home economics classroom, which always smelled of the potpourri the slightly crazed Ms. Honeywell assigned her students to make. Today, it was peach-scented.

Buffy was waving her hand against the reek when Willow pushed the door open. “Ugh, Wil. Why here?”

“I just wanted to mope where no one would find me.”

“Good choice. That smell is definitely a repellant.” Buffy went into the stall and closed the door, leaning against it so she wasn’t hovering over her friend. “All with the missage?”

“And the guilt. Mostly the guilt.” Tears sparkled in Willow’s eyes. “I just wanted to see him, you know? That’s all.”

“Well, maybe his family is travelling.”

“They aren’t. He’s just skipping because he doesn’t want to see me.” Willow’s eyes widened. “What if he skips too much again and gets held back another year? It’ll be all my fault.”

“He’s not going to do that,” Buffy reassured her. “I’d skip the rest of the week, if I could.”

“Yeah, but not because your cheating ex is around.” She put her head in her hands. “Oh, God. I’m an ‘ex.’”

Using the door as a brace, Buffy sank down lower so she could take Willow by her arms. “Maybe not forever. You and Oz are really good together. He chased you, remember? Maybe this time you have to be the one to put yourself out there, chase him a little.”

“I can do that,” Willow nodded eagerly. “I’ll be she who puts out.”

“Um…”

“Yeah, that didn’t come out right.” Willow squeezed her eyes shut. “We talked about that, you know? I always thought he was going to be my first.” She gave Buffy a haunted look. “He would have been so perfect.”

“Hey, you might still have that. Don’t give up.”

Willow nodded and wiped her wet eyes. She gave Buffy a cringing, whipped puppy look. “Is this where you want to know what I was thinking? ’Cause I really don’t know.”

“Oh, I know what you were thinking. You’ve crushed on Xander for years. I just don’t get the timing. You were both involved with other people.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t feel it now – I don’t think he does, either – and as soon as it could be us, it was just so obvious Xander isn’t what I want.” Willow pouted. “I want Oz, and I lost him.”

Buffy stood and pulled Willow up, too, giving her a hug. “Give him time, just be there, all uninterested in other guys, okay?”

“It just hurts. And since it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t be allowed to hurt. But it does.”

“You don’t blame Xan?”

Willow shook her head. “No. He would have stopped if I told him to, but I just wanted him to notice me for so long… I tried to do a delust spell on us,” she admitted.

Buffy’s eyes widened. “That’s why you were in the chemistry room.”

Closing her eyes as she nodded, Willow added, “And that’s why Spike thought I was a real witch.”

“You are a real witch,” Buffy assured her, “just, you need more training.” She opened the stall door and led Willow to the sink. She pulled a couple feet from the roll of brown paper and wet it, dabbing at Willow’s forehead and eyes. “Don’t blame yourself for that. Apparently, Drusilla knew who cursed Angel last May. Spike already knew you were good with magic.”

Grateful for something to focus on besides her misery, Willow examined Buffy. “You really trust him?” When Buffy nodded, she asked carefully, “Because of the truce?” The thought of marching into a building with both Angelus and Drusilla was terrifying; Willow could see where Spike might have seemed like a hero swooping in at the last minute.

“No. Because I saw him stripped down to nothing but a demon.” Buffy gave her friend a rueful smile. “He’s nothing like Angelus. Shocked me down to my socks.” She peeled off another foot from the roll and handed it to Willow.

“How is he different?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“He’s… gentle. He’s capable of genuinely caring about other people, not just himself. He took care of me. He’s fun.” Buffy lifted a shoulder as Willow stopped patting her face dry. “Yeah, I know. Everything the Council says demons aren’t.”

“He’s staying with you, isn’t he?” When Buffy nodded, she asked, “You aren’t scared for your mom?”

Buffy laughed. “He’ll never lay a finger on Mom. She was the first person to be kind to him in… in a century, maybe. One thing about Spike, is he’s loyal, and she’s got his loyalty.” She really wanted to tell Willow how he was tying himself in profane knots trying to be a good guest, but she wasn’t ready to admit that she was falling for another vampire. Like Xander, Willow would figure it out quick enough. She was obvious girl. Buffy turned the conversation back to the heartbreak of the week. “You want to talk, call me anytime over the holiday, okay?”

“Okay. O-or we could do a sleepover! At my house,” she added, remembering that Buffy had an undead houseguest.

Buffy pressed her full lips together and made a noncommittal noise. “I’ve been going on extra patrols to make up for last week, and Giles is freaking out over the demons coming to meet the mayor next week.”

“But you’ll be there instead,” Willow said, putting on a perky smile.

“With crossbow a-blazin,’” Buffy agreed.


	15. Feast Day

As Buffy peeled and cored apples for one pie on Wednesday, she shot shy glances toward the other side of the kitchen island, where Spike worked with his biceps standing out, then retreating as he mashed up pumpkin for the other pie. Joyce had already grated nutmeg and mortared (or was it pestled?) cloves, and the whole downstairs smelled wonderful. Thanksgiving was off to a promising start.

Faith was an easy guest easy to persuade, as it turned out, despite the vampire in residence. All Buffy had to do was tell her that Spike took out the bad guys who organized Slayerfest. She described Spike for the dark-haired Slayer to prevent an inadvertent fight before they met on Thursday. Buffy didn’t have to worry about a confrontation in her mother’s house, but she had other worries when Faith had summed up her word picture of the vampire with an ‘Unh, sounds hot’ and a little thrust of her hips.

She was more than a little worried, to be honest. Faith, with her aggressive attitude and long, dark hair, seemed much more like Spike’s type than she was. And she was another Slayer.

Joyce’s voice surprised Buffy from her reverie. “Spike?”

“Yes, mum?”

“Would you be a dear and get the fire pit out of the shed?”

His brow wrinkled. “You have a portable fire pit?”

Joyce, her face lighting up, had a SoCal moment. “Oh, yes. It’s so much more versatile than a chiminea.” 

“Right.” He had no clue, but the shed was only so big. “Uh, happy to, just, I’ll have to do it after the sun sets.”

She froze. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forget you aren’t…”

Buffy stole another look at Spike, who was uncomfortable. “Mom’s right. It’s easy to forget. You’re the most human vamp I’ve ever met. No offense,” she added.

“I’ll try to,” he put on what they took for a monster movie accent, “speak more like Vlad.” When Joyce giggled, he admitted to his ignorance. “But it would help if I knew what I was fetching from the shed.”

Joyce explained the fireproof bowl on a raised platform, something that wouldn’t char the ground. “It’s supposed to be a clear, warm night,” she went on. “I thought we could roast marshmallows.”

Spike’s face lit up at the mention of the puffy treats, but Buffy was frowning. “Vampires and open flames aren’t mixy things.”

Feeling warm inside for her concern, he gave her a reassuring look. “Set fires for the hob for ’round fifty years after I was turned. No need to worry, love.”

Joyce was still frozen. “But… you smoke.”

Buffy froze, too. “With the embers and everything.”

He looked between the two disapproving women. “And still, here I am.”

Buffy was giving him a narrow look, her paring knife pointing toward him. “Smoking really isn’t good for you.”

A small part of Spike was rebelling against the bonds and expectations forming around him, but the rest of him practically purred. “Never really had anyone care that I took risks.”

Buffy put down the paring knife and reached across to cover his hand. Joyce came away from the counter where she was staging her spices and squeezed his shoulder.

There were labels. Henpecked. Apron strings. Spike held the bowl out for Joyce’s approval. “How’s this look, mum?” He shot a look at his mate. And, if he was very lucky, someone might label him whipped.

“My goodness,” Joyce marveled, taking the masher from him and running it through the silky pumpkin puree. “Super strength has its uses.” She squeezed Spike again, on his biceps this time.

“Mom,” Buffy gritted out.

“Oh, I know you have super strength, too, sweetheart,” Joyce soothed, moving back to the spices. “You can get the fire pit, can’t you, so we don’t have to wait until late?”

“Uhh!” Buffy had just finished slicing the last apple and had no excuses. She sent Spike a ‘see what I have to deal with?’ look. She was adorable, so he gave her a little grin.

Buffy flushed and looked away, flustered. She seized on the first topic of conversation as her eyes fell on the spices. “Is it mortaring or pestling?”

He smiled. “Grinding, pet.”

“Oh. Grinding is good.” Then her eyes rounded and came back to his merry ones as she realized what she’d said. Spike laid his tongue against his teeth. Scarlet now, Buffy fled toward the shed.

Happy was a label, too. 

So was home.

***

Buffy carried a stack of pressed napkins to the sideboard in the dining room. The table was already set, but it never hurt to have extra on hand. And she wanted to check on things in the living room. 

Giles still sat on the sofa, listening to Faith and Spike and looking frustrated because he didn’t have control of the conversation. He wanted to plan for the demons who would be coming unaware into town for an ambush instead of a parley with the late mayor. Spike still sat in the armchair, with Faith standing over him, her arms crossed.

But her fellow Slayer’s face was a little softer as Spike asked her about Boston. He’d been through the city once or twice and was asking her about landmarks like Fenway Park and Symphony Hall. When the latter didn’t bring elicit any memories, he tried the Common.

Joyce had switched on the lamps, since the curtains were drawn to keep Spike safe. She also had the overhead lights on in the dining room for the same reason, as well as the unlit candles on the table. When Buffy slipped back into the kitchen, she asked, “How is it going?”

“Giles wants to talk shop. Faith probably wants to pick a fight, but Spike isn’t being very accommodating. For now.”

Joyce raised a brow. “Go get them, please. All of them. A little work will put an end to any thought of mischief right quick.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Buffy sketched a salute and gladly went for their guests. None of them would misbehave in front of her mother.

“Giles,” Joyce began as the three trooped into the kitchen, “would you please carve the turkey in here? Spike and Faith, if you would, please take the side dishes to the table. The potholders are on the counter. Buffy, pour the water and light the candles, please?”

“Here, pet,” Spike said, handing over his lighter. He wore his ubiquitous black jeans, but today he sported a deep red cotton shirt, tucked in, sleeves rolled up. His fingers lingered against hers as he handed it over.

“Thanks.” For some reason, her voice sounded breathless. 

Just as she finished lighting the last candle, the doorbell rang. “That’s Xander!” she called, and went to open the door.

“Bloodsucking fiend, stuffy old British guy, and intimidating Slayers, one; Harris family holiday, zero.”

Buffy smiled and waved him inside. “Yay, you’re here. I’m so glad you came.”

“And I didn’t even wear my stretchy pants.” 

“And you’ve fished that compliment right out of the sea. You look nice, Xan.” He wore chinos which had been pressed in recent memory and a – for Xander – sedate, two-toned pullover sweater.

“You, too.”

“Thanks.” Buffy would have worn a dress, but she didn’t want Faith to feel underdressed. She was wearing a dark red jersey top that didn’t quite match Spike’s shirt and grey trousers. “You got here at just the right time.”

He beamed. “Dinnertime!”

A few minutes later, Spike sat with one hand in Buffy’s and one in Joyce’s, head bowed as Giles gave a perfunctory prayer of thanks. He’d been in stranger circumstances, but he couldn’t remember when.

Joyce poured pinot noir wine into her prized Murano goblets, just a splash for the teenagers and a generous serving for the adults. She froze as she got to Spike. “I’m sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “I didn’t think that, as the oldest, you might want to say grace.”

He winced. “No, think Watcher here is a mite more qualified.” When she still looked worried, he winked. “Evil, yeah?”

“Formerly,” Buffy said, her voice brooking no dissent and her eyes clearly sending a warning to the vampire.

He sent her a warning in return. “Barely have my boots on the right path. I’m sure Rupert’s prayer is more likely to be heard.”

The Watcher in question cleared his throat and forced a smile. “This all smells delicious, Joyce.” He tended to agree with Spike on this one, except he didn’t feel comfortable agreeing with the vampire about anything.

“We should totally eat,” Buffy said brightly. She passed her plate to Giles for a serving of turkey. For a couple of minutes, no one spoke, and the clink of china was the only sound.

After he got his plate filled to his satisfaction, Xander looked down at the simple array of silverware on the tablecloth in front of him. “Oh, good. There aren’t seventeen forks for me to mess up.”

Spike snorted. “Know what you mean. Dining back in my day was a chore.”

“You’re from the Victorian era, correct?” Giles asked, interested despite himself.

The blond man nodded. “Yeah. We were blood– er, quite good at complicating everything. Made eating, visiting, dancing, even conversing a minefield of manners. You had to already belong to know how to navigate the whole mess.”

“So, how many forks was your personal best?”

Spike gave Buffy a lazy grin. “Too many courses to set silverware, truthfully. The most opulent dinner party I ever attended had fifty-six courses, served a la russe, and the footmen brought fresh silverware with nearly every one.”

Joyce looked horrified. Her Midwestern sensibilities mandated ‘good’ china and silverware for twelve, but not fifty-six individual pieces per person! “How many people were there?”

Spike thought back, a shadow dimming his blue eyes. He’d been invited to round out the number of gentlemen and spent most of the affair with an affable look on his face and the hope no one would try to engage him in conversation. No one had. The meal lasted well over three excruciating hours. “Twenty-four around a very long table.”

“Fifty-six courses,” Xander said with awe. “I can’t imagine that much food.”

Joyce shook her head. “I can’t imagine the amount of dish washing. By hand.” Or owning and storing that much dinnerware.

“What did you eat back then?” Faith asked.

He looked nonplussed and thought before answering. “Turtle soup, stewed lampreys, oxtail, mushrooms, pheasant, veal, sweetbreads, oysters…”

“You’d pop if you ate all that,” Faith declared.

Spike nodded his agreement. “You could decline a course.”

Giles, who had a better idea than the Americans what Spike was visualizing, gestured at the table. “Joyce’s lovely setup would seem bare, compared to the number of dishes on a Victorian place setting. In addition to the bread, salad, and dinner plate, there would be a crescent-shaped bone dish for, er, bones and a butter pat.”

“Butter pat?”

“A little dish about,” Spike held his fingers two inches apart, “just for your pats of butter.”

“There used to be plates for specific dishes. Scalloped dishes for oysters and asparagus. Quite elaborate.” Giles touched his napkin to the corner of his mouth.

“Did you enjoy eating like that?” Buffy asked Spike.

“’Course not. That was formal, an’ I got no use for that. At home, we usually ate much the way we’re eating here. Dishes on the table.”

“‘We?’” Joyce asked.

“My moth– er, me an’ me mum. Just the two of us for a long time.” And the servants, all of them rattling around in the huge, empty house, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

No one quite knew how to follow up on that revelation, so they took Xander’s lead and began eating. Compliments rolled in for Joyce’s excellent meal, and the conversation began to flow naturally, even though some of her guests were strangers. All three teenagers had seconds, and Joyce took the bottle of wine around the table once more.

An hour later, Joyce and Buffy brought out the pies with a quart of vanilla ice cream and hand-whipped cream to appreciative noises as well as complaints of being overfull – not that anyone turned down a sliver of either apple or pumpkin pie.

“This is just capital, Joyce,” Rupert said. 

Returning from the kitchen, she set a tray on the sideboard. “Thank you. Would anyone like coffee or milk with dessert?”

Faith was feeling, inexplicably, at home. She’d mostly had Thanksgiving with barely-warmed frozen turkey dinners and a random example of her mother’s many boyfriends, so this calm feast should have her on edge. Instead, she felt comfortable. Maybe it was the turkey. She laid into her accent and said, “You should serve a slice of cheddar with the apple pie, you know, not ice cream.”

“Cheddar?” Buffy asked. She liked cheese.

“As in cheese?” Xander asked, horrified. On pie?

“Yeah, in New England, we have a saying: apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.” And everyone laughed, but with her, not at her.

“I’ve never heard of that,” Joyce marveled.

“The sweet and savory complement one another.” Giles repressed the urge to note that most of the dishes tonight were originally British.

Another hour passed before the group stopped talking and left the table to begin clearing away the dishes. Joyce had containers for the leftovers ready to go, so they made quick work of the chores. As Buffy and Faith came up the basement steps after leaving the linens in the washing machine, the dark-haired Slayer mumbled, “Thanks for the invite, B. I had fun.”

“Hey, I’m glad you came.” Back in the kitchen, Buffy noticed her sister Slayer checking the microwave clock. “You aren’t leaving, are you?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ll patrol tonight.” She gave Buffy a genuine grin. “Well, I might nap first.”

Buffy pouted. “I was going to patrol and work off that pumpkin pie.”

Faith pinched Buffy’s taut side, unable to latch onto skin. “What pie?” She winked and went to thank Joyce, glad that she at least knew to be polite to her hostess and so grateful it hadn’t been some kind of Victorian nightmare meal, tripping her up with dozens of forks and spoons.

Xander looked out the window over the sink as he set a few serving dishes to soak. “Is that a fire pit?”

“Apparently,” Spike said, looking out into the darkness. “We roasted marshmallows out there last night, at any rate.”

The teenager moaned. “Oh, man. Can we do that tonight, too?”

“Where?” Giles demanded. “Where can you possibly fit even one marshmallow, after that meal?”

“Hey, I’m a growing boy.” Xander turned to Buffy, missing Spike literally bite his lip to keep from saying something insulting about growing horizontally. “We can call Wil. I’m sure her parents are done hosting the foreign students.” Both of the older Rosenbergs taught at the university, and they invited international students into their home over the long weekend.

Buffy looked between Giles and Xander, something hopeful in her expression. They weren’t rushing out of the house, away from the vampire. “Good idea. Mom? Do we have graham crackers and chocolate?”

“S’mores?” Xander moaned again.

Joyce met Giles’ eyes and shook her head in bemusement. “I think we do.”

“Great!” Buffy beamed. “By the time the fire’s ready, we’ll have room. C’mon, Spike. Help me with the wood?”

He bit his tongue this time. Almost four bloody hours of good behavior now.

“I’ll call Willow.” Xander grabbed Joyce and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You have the best Thanksgivings, Mrs. S.”

***

Feeling a little groggy from all the food and the chemical in turkey, she forgot the name, that makes you sleepy, Faith made her way toward her motel room. Still, she had her stake in hand, ready to go, as she cut through the deserted downtown.

But not ready for this. “Faith?”

She jumped in surprise, spinning as she did to face the vampire. “Angelus. You know, sneaking up on a Slayer? Not the smartest thing.”

“It’s Angel. And I didn’t mean to startle you.” He examined her face and wondered if she’d look younger without so much eye makeup. “How are you tonight?”

Shaking her head to the side, Faith glanced around to make sure there were no other vampires in the vicinity. “Sorry, I already used up my daily quota of polite talk with vampires. What do you want?”

“To help you.” He lowered his chin and looked at her sincerely. “I wanted to ask if you’re happy here in Sunnydale.”

Why was he giving her the puppy dog eyes? He was B’s vamp, right? “That isn’t any of your business.”

Well, he knew it wouldn’t be easy. “Maybe it could be. Two Slayers in one place seems silly, when there are so many other places where evil is at work. I’m leaving town, and if you want, I’ll help you get established somewhere,” he shrugged and gestured to indicate the silent streets, “a little more lively. I was thinking Los Angeles. You’d like it there.”

Faith stared at him for almost half a minute before her lips turned up. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Well, women were, mostly. “No, not at all. I know I’m not a Watcher, but –”

She took a step closer, surprised that the vampire didn’t retreat. “Look, Angelus –”

“Angel.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Look, I can’t stake you because of the curse –”

“My soul.”

“– and I can’t sleep with you because that would give you a happy. No slay. No lay. So, you are of absolutely no use to me.” She gave him her best smirk. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some patrolling to do.”

Angel stared after her bouncing hair and swinging hips, stunned into silence. She’d rejected him. He surged after her. She’d misunderstood, that’s all.

“No, Faith,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “I just want to be your fr–”

Friend, he was going to say, but suddenly he was sailing through the air. Angel crashed into the curb with a grunt and a suspicious bolt of pain in his knee. Damn. He had no idea the junior Slayer was that strong.

“My friend?” Faith stood over him, her knuckles white where she clutched the stake hard. No man got to put his hands on her without her permission. Not anymore. “Oh, do you think you’re the first older man who’s wanted to be my friend, to take me out of town and ‘help’ me?” She sneered at him. “I don’t care if it makes B mad. Come near me again, and I’ll end you.” The Slayer was breathing hard, trying to control her drive to stake the enemy right now. After a couple of moments, she made herself take the first step away from him. As she turned, she shook her head. “At least the one at B’s house didn’t put the moves on me,” she muttered, striding away.

Sitting up slowly, Angel realized he had dirt and pine needles on his dark pants. He brushed at them, trying to get his mind around being rejected by both Slayers in one week. He knew he was charming, but outside of that, surely the Powers would soften the Slayers' minds and hearts toward their champion? What was he supposed –?

Wait. The one at B’s house?

Spike was still at Buffy’s house? Where he wasn’t welcome?

Angel stood stiffly and limped toward Revello Drive, his fists clenched.

***

One nice thing about living near the coast was that predicting the way the wind will blow is usually easy. Tonight, the breeze was, as usual, out of the west, and six chairs clustered in a partial circle around the fire pit, leaving the east side open for sparks.

Spike sprawled in his chair, Joyce on one side, Buffy on the other. Giles was on Joyce’s other side, and the two were having a conversation about education that bored him to tears within thirty seconds. Instead, he was listening to Buffy talk to her friends about someone named Percy, some comically-named git that Red was going to tutor. She was worried about the responsibility.

As he listened, he gazed at the marshmallow on the long fork he held over the fire, which felt nice even with his coat. The wind was at his back. A partially eaten bar of chocolate and a half-full sleeve of graham crackers rested on the ledge of the fire pit. He’d talked Buffy into a nibble from her s’more, the first time he’d tasted the treat. He preferred the roasted marshmallow by itself. 

Spike was content, and it took him most of the day to find a name for how he felt. Contentment was practically unknown in his existence. He’d been happy – it wasn’t hard to make him happy: a brawl with a good opponent, Man U winning a match, or a certain sidelong look Dru hadn’t given him nearly often enough. But content? That was new.

What surprised him was that part of it came from Joyce. His demon only wanted Buffy; Joyce’s kindness was pleasant but not necessary. His human side, though, had ached for a maternal presence, and she filled that need admirably. It didn’t hurt that she resembled his mother.

Without thought, he put his arm out, resting his hand on the back of Buffy’s chair, his fingers touching her hair. Drawing in a deep breath of wood smoke, burnt sugar, and Buffy’s shampoo, he let out a sigh.

The group had been astounded by the description of an opulent Victorian feast, but he was shocked in his own way by this setup. Just how often did the Slayer have a fire in her backyard after nightfall brought danger? Joyce not only had a fire pit, but a set of telescoping forks just for holding food over that fire. Spike wondered if the little family ever took them to the beach or on camping –

And he was abruptly snatched from his chair by clawed hands digging into his shoulders. Automatically clutching the marshmallow fork, he brought it over his head even as his body was slammed into the ground.

“Kinnell!” Before he could get to his feet, he took a driving kick in the ribs. “Oof!”

“Angel!” Buffy stood in shock, staring at him.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome, boy.” Angel drew his leg back again. 

Spike had been waiting for that. He swept the forward leg from beneath the dark-haired vampire, using the motion and one hand to regain his own footing.

By the time Spike’s duster flared out in a circle and he rose from a modified cartwheel, Buffy was beside him, standing over the older vampire. “Angel!” This time she said the name with anger. Behind her, Joyce and the rest were on their feet.

“Bad form,” Giles clearly said.

Angel fought hard against putting on his demon’s face. Seeing Spike tucked in a chair, cozy with Buffy’s people in a way he’d never been, was too much. The sight of his hand on her chair, as though he had a right to put his arm around her, was far too much.

“You just attacked Spike, for no reason,” Buffy spat. “What is your damage?”

Angel didn’t look at her. “You need to leave.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Angel still had his eyes fixed on Spike. He wanted to proclaim that Buffy was his, belonged to him, just like Drusilla, and that Spike could never have her. He had enough sense left, barely, not to say that. “She isn’t yours,” he said instead.

Behind her, Spike huffed out some air, as if Angel had kicked him again. “Know that,” he snarled and tried to regain some dignity. “The Slayer belongs to herself.”

“Why is he even still here, Buffy?”

And Angel still wasn’t looking at her, like she was a bone and he was standing over her, posturing and snapping at another dog. “Because Spike is our guest, Angel. He’s welcome here.”

Instead of answering, Angel growled. In her peripheral vision, Buffy could just see her friends and family exchange troubled looks. Something in the sound caught at her memory, though, the rise and fall of the sound, and she knew Angel must be saying something to Spike in their common language.

You aren’t welcome anywhere. No one wants you. You’re nothing.

Spike stiffened, his expression going still, becoming a mask. Words commonplace from over a hundred years ago, the emotions evoked even older. For a moment, he could think of nothing to say, no counterattack. 

Buffy looked at his face, at the way it closed off in the presence of the older vampire. She took a step forward, placing herself between the two.

Spike blinked, his shuttered expression giving way to astonishment. No one had ever stepped between him and Angel. No one had ever shielded him from his grandsire’s disapproval and anger. His knees nearly gave way. Which was all right. At Buffy’s feet was the perfect place to worship. 

She wasn’t circling them, dancing and laughing with delight like Drusilla had done so many times when they fought. She was standing with him.

Buffy’s eyes were narrow. She didn’t know what Angel had said to shutter Spike’s expressive face like that, but it couldn’t be anything good. So she put her hand behind her, groping until she found Spike’s fingers. She squeezed them and replied to Angel with the only word she knew in that language, Spike’s name.

Mate.

Angel’s brown eyes were gone in less than an instant, replaced with furious yellow. His brow furrowed with rage and ridges as he let out a high-pitched belligerent yowl and launched himself at Spike.

Who was ready.

He hadn’t been ready in his sixth year as a vampire, when Angel gave up beating on him because it was no longer easy and safe to do. He hadn’t been ready when defeating his first Slayer left him indulgent and easy-going instead of primed for retribution. He had been ready when he had to witness a cured Drusilla welcome Angelus into her body and heart once more, but he hadn’t been able.

Now belonged to him, though, and he was ready.

Spike, trusting her reflexes, used his right hand to spin Buffy away from him. His left came up in a fist directly into Angel’s fangs. He drove from the balls of his feet, putting all his force and years of street-fighting experience into the blow, meeting the unwise rush with glee. Two of his fingers dislocated, and the skin across his knuckles split. 

And Angel dropped to the ground, stunned. He lay there a moment, then carefully lifted his face from the grass, putting an elbow beneath him.

“You all right, love?” Spike moved to where Buffy had stumbled away a few feet. He shook out his hand, then grabbed his fingers and tugged them back into place with a pained grunt.

“Fine.” She stared at Angel, who had blood all over his face. His nose was mashed flat and, as she watched, he spat out two teeth and a fang. Then Spike blocked her view, stepping between her and Angel just as she’d put herself between them. 

She met his eyes for a moment before moving to his right side. It felt like she belonged there. “Angel, why are you here? What’s…” Buffy was at a loss. “What are you even doing?”

Angel gathered his scattered teeth before getting to his knees. How had the pup done that? He couldn’t be that strong. Giving his head a shake, he forced the demon down, the shift causing more pain and a new gush of blood. “He’s evil, Buffy.” The words came out thick and indistinct from his damaged mouth.

The big vampire was focused on her, finally, as he dragged himself upright. “It’s my fault,” he admitted magnanimously. “You think vampires are safe because of me. But I’m the only one who is. I have a soul.”

Those words broke through Joyce’s shock at the violence in her backyard. She quivered with anger as she took a step closer. “Oh, well, you have a soul. You don’t do evil things anymore, like attack people out of the blue.” Her voice was steely. “Get off my property.” 

Angel gave a slow blink and glanced to the side, where Buffy’s mother stood with her eyes narrowed and her fingers flexing with the absence of an ax. He glanced at the uneasy teens who should never have survived Angelus’ reign, and then at the Watcher, who had bled so satisfactorily yet remained unbowed. The Englishman was looking at him with haughty disapproval, much as his ancestors would have looked at him when he was human back in Ireland.

Even before he focused on Buffy, he knew he’d lost her. 

Angel pulled himself to his full height and took her in one last time. But it wasn’t the sweet, loving, forgiving young girl he loved in front of him.

The Slayer stood before him, her eyes steady and assessing. And deadly.

“The only word she knows is my… name.” Spike’s tone was neutral.

The statement was for his sole benefit. The boy had always been one to stand up for the honor of a woman, Buffy now instead of Drusilla. Angel put his hand to the ruin of his mouth before meeting Spike’s gaze. “Guess I never beat the humanity out of you, after all.” Angel tried to sneer, but it hurt too much. “You might love her, but she’ll never love you. She can’t. She’s good, Willy, and that’s something you’ll never be.” He turned to the side, ready to brush by them, hating that he was still limping a little from his encounter with Faith. The halting gait ruined the dignity of his exit.

Spike didn’t move, just kept looking ahead. Angel was passing to their left, away from Buffy. “I was a good man once.” His voice was low and precise, and his response wasn't meant for his grandsire. “Been a long time, but I’ll keep trying until I get it right.”

Then Angel was gone, disappearing into the shadow he’d drawn to cover his retreat. The people in Joyce’s backyard exchanged uneasy looks. 

Xander broke the silence. “You’re gonna need a new marshmallow, Bleach Boy.” Everyone looked at him. “The one you had? It got stuck in Angel’s hair when he grabbed you from the chair.”

Willow nodded. “It did. I saw it, too.”

“Bugger,” Giles said softly. He was sorry he missed that. Joyce glanced at him, and he gave her a mischievous little smile that reminded her so much of Ripper that she felt it clear to her toes.

Something occurred to her, and since her guests were trying so hard to get them past the blood, blows, and hard words, she just blurted it out. “Since he can’t see his reflection… How long will the marshmallow be there?” Willow giggled, a little hysterically, and everyone else smiled.

“Nah,” Spike said, letting out a breath, “he’ll smell it on his fingers a few minutes from now. He checks his hair gel all the time, makes sure it’s holding.”

Buffy swayed to the side so her shoulder would nudge against him. “And how often do you check your hair?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes just yet.

“Hey!” he cried with exaggerated offense, making her smile.

“I guess we should put out the fire and get inside,” Joyce sighed. “I don’t know how much holiday spirit I have left now.”

***

“Home sweet home,” Spike said as he unlocked the steel door to the warehouse. It was Saturday, his last day staying in the Summers’ home.

“Doesn’t look like much.” Buffy sounded worried as she peered into the darkness. “You sure you want to leave – Eeep!”

Spike grinned down at the startled Slayer in his arms. “Just carrying you across the threshold, love.”

“We aren’t married, doof,” she said, swatting his arm.

“Doesn’t hurt to practice.”

“Put me down.” She was blushing now.

Before he did, Spike palmed a row of light switches, bathing the lower floor in the glow of twenty or so high-wattage bulbs. “Not really anything down here. Thought maybe we could set it up for training. That way you wouldn’t have to move the tables around in the library so much.”

Buffy gave him a soft look. “You’d give up your space for me?”

“Our space.” He dropped a kiss on her temple before stepping away. “Only, don’t tell your mum it’s ours.”

“Kind of bare,” she said, still not sure this was nice enough for Spike.

“Come see the upstairs. That’s not so bad.”

Hand-in-hand, they started up the steps. “How did you find this place?”

Telling her it used to be Mr. Trick’s lair wasn’t really an option. “Kind of a demon realtor. Once Wilkins was gone, lot of his minions cleared out of Sunnydale. This used to belong to a vampire, based on the window coverings.” They paused on the landing as Spike unlocked the door to the loft.

“Oh, this isn’t bad,” Buffy admitted, looking around at the exposed brick and tall windows. All of them had blinds, except for one. The only things in view were a bare mattress on the floor and a refrigerator against the wall. “No, wait. I take it back. Spike, you really should stay with us.”

He moved closer to her. “No. Can’t snog you properly under your mother’s roof.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “And ‘snog’ just means kissing, right?”

“Mmm,” he agreed, lowering his mouth so it was almost touching hers, waiting for her to move the final inch.

She did.

Five minutes later, Buffy disentangled herself from his arms. “We, um,” she wiped her mouth, “should probably bring your things up before Mom gets here.”

Spike sighed. “Give me a mo, pet. Don’t think I should attempt stairs just now.”

Buffy glanced down, then averted her eyes and giggled. She cleared her throat and turned away as her cheeks glowed with a blush. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no, love. Don’t be. I’m not.” He caught her fingers before she could escape. “Not like I’m in this alone.”

She blushed harder as he closed his eyes and inhaled. “You’re such a… bad boy.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a shrug, “but I’m trying.”

Buffy’s eyes were shining as she came back to him, impulsively placing her hand on his lean jaw. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“You’re daft,” he scoffed. What he really wanted to do was draw her into another kiss, but he forced that away. “Here, pet, let’s get a peek at the bathroom, then we’ll get downstairs.”

Five minutes later, they emptied the big trunk of Spike’s car. As she carried the last box upstairs, Buffy wondered at how little he had to show for all his years of living. Surprisingly, most of the boxes held books, as if he was a Watcher or something. Curious, she pulled one out as she placed the box on the floor. “William Blake,” she mused, reading the spine. “He’s a poet, isn’t he? ‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,’ right?”

“Yeah.” Spike looked at her, clearly surprised.

Buffy’s lips curved, happy that he was impressed with her brains. “My boyfriend’s a poet, you know.”

“Your boyf–” He was staring at her now. “Your boyfriend?” His voice was hoarse.

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t look at him, just put the volume back and took a random book from another box. “Oh.”

She sounded disappointed. “What is it, love?” he asked, fighting to keep everything casual and not tackle her to the wood floor.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Old book in a foreign language.” She handed it over. “I feel like I’m back in the school library.”

Spike tilted his head to the side as he examined the unfamiliar book. There were a few torn pieces of paper serving as bookmarks. Opening it, he recognized Dalton’s writing. He hadn’t thought of the dusted vamp for months. This book must have been thrown into his things when the minions returned to the burned factory to gather their surviving belongings. A word caught his eye, and he focused for a moment, automatically translating the Greek. 

‘Gem of Amara, buried with great treasure near the mouth of hell itself…’

His eyebrows rose, then he snapped the book shut with a decisive movement.

“What is it?”

“Nothing your boyfriend’s interested in right at this moment,” he said, setting it in a different box and closing the distance between them.

“I didn’t say you were my boyfriend,” she hedged, her eyes shining as she backed up a step.

“Don’t tease a poor, sensitive lad,” he begged softly, warmth and humor in his own eyes.

“What would you give me, if you were my boyfriend?” She took another half-step back. Just a little more, and she could spin him against the wall.

“All my kisses, sweet as sugar on your tongue.”

“I was going to ask for poems, but you just gave me one.” She took another step back.

“You’re quite the inspiration, pet.”

She didn’t need that extra step after all. Spike’s ‘oof’ of surprise as she twisted to press him into the brick left his mouth open and ready for hers. Buffy mashed her body against his, kissing him until a grin took her mouth. “I don’t know if you’re all that sweet.”

“You are. M’sure of it.” His blue eyes darkened. “Can’t wait to taste you, love.”

Her eyes widened, and she swallowed. She couldn’t misunderstand his meaning, not when he was looking at her all hot like that. A week ago, his demon had a dream while they were locked in together, had acted on his impulse, and changed everything with two strokes of his tongue. Her boyfriend, kissing her there…

“Spike! Buffy!” Joyce called from the open door downstairs.

Buffy groaned and put her forehead against his chin. “Great timing, Mom,” she muttered, then pulled away from him. “Up here!”

Closing his eyes, Spike let the wall support him for a moment. “Summers women will be the death of me.” Catching in a breath, he gave his girl a rueful smile. “Think she’ll like it?”

“Since it gets you farther away from my bedroom? She’ll love it.”


	16. Finding Home

November 1998

Buffy growled at her Watcher. “That’s it. That’s the only word I know.”

Giles shook his head, thinking of the way newly risen vampires often didn’t seem to understand words, merely snarling instead of speaking. Perhaps they only knew the vampire language right away, recalling their native tongue later? Or maybe they just didn’t understand Buffy’s quips. “I can hardly believe that they have a language of their own.” He jotted down a note, muttering about needing a tape recorder. “And that’s Spike’s name?” When she nodded, Giles frowned. “And that’s what made Angel attack?”

“I know, right?” She shrugged. “He’s not the same since he got back. A hundred years in Hell…” Buffy shook her head. “How could anyone be the same?” The Monday after Thanksgiving, she was still trying to wrap her head around his behavior.

“That was not your fault.” Giles made the statement with gratifying firmness. “It’s his own.”

“It’s Angelus’ fault.”

“No.” Giles pushed back from the table they sat at and focused on the library’s double doors for a moment, trying to leash his temper. “Angel’s the one who pursued you. He was under a curse for a hundred years, Buffy, and he never investigated it.” And Jenny had known, could have warned them. He mourned her, but his grief was edged with guilt, because he also blamed her for her silence. “The whole situation… You saved the world,” he chanced a touch to her hand, “at great personal cost.”

“At least he came back.” She gave her Watcher a miserable smile. “I don’t have to feel so guilty.”

He tilted his head back to look at her more closely through his glasses. Once he learned that Willow’s curse to re-ensoul the vampire worked, he understood better why stopping Acathla left his Slayer so shattered. Giles just hated that she felt that compromising guilt, too. “Is that why you took care of him? After his return?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I kept it a secret, but… After what Angelus did, who else was going to help him?”

Giles let out a long sigh. “You’re very kind to everyone, my dear, even vampires.”

“Well, two vampires.”

The Watcher shook his head. “At least we have an explanation for Angel. It is… difficult to wrap my head around Spike’s behavior.” 

Buffy looked down. “I don’t think he’s the usual vamp,” she managed.

“He seems taken with you,” Giles observed.

She forced herself to meet her Watcher’s eyes. “We understand each other. I’m not the usual Slayer.”

“Do you think he’ll sit down with me to answer my questions?”

The Slayer gave him a sunny smile; this was her plan, after all. In her experience, once you got to know Spike, he was surprisingly likable. “I know he will. How about tomorrow?”

***

How Spike controlled his bloodlust, Giles had no idea. But here he was at the end of the school day, reporting for his debriefing on the capture and imprisonment debacle. Students milled about in the hallway outside, but the blond vampire seemed oblivious. Maybe he should ask him about how he tamped down the desire to feed and kill. Angel always spoke of it obliquely, mournful and abashed, giving credit to his soul. Buffy confided that Angel admitted he wanted to bite her, drain her of her blood.

Spike, on the other hand, mostly looked bored and fidgety alone in a room with a human, much less in a building full of succulent fare. The Watcher couldn’t help but feel nervous. Giles just finished setting up the tape recorder when Willow and Xander came into the library. 

“Hey, G-man – uh, Giles,” Xander said, automatically correcting his form of address when the Watcher hit him with a scorching glare. “Hey, Deadboy, Jr.”

“Hey, Stay-Puft.” Spike inclined his head at the witch with more warmth. “Red.”

“Hi, Spike.”

Xander gave him a narrow look before deciding it was a comment about their firepit adventure. Maybe it was an acknowledgement that he’d handed the bag of marshmallows to Spike and so had the right to boast about the fluff melted onto Angel’s hair. “Hey, interview with a vampire!” he exclaimed happily, taking a seat at the end of the table.

“Yes, well, an interview that would be better conducted between just two participants.”

Xander mimed turning a key in a lock in front of his mouth and turned bright, expectant eyes on the vampire. Willow scooted her chair in closer to the table, too, looking between Spike and Giles. “Are you going to ask him about why he didn’t kill Buffy?”

“Oi! Sitting right here,” Spike complained.

Giles rubbed his temple. “Yes, I will get to that. I was going to start by gathering information about the vampire language.”

“What language?”

“Must I remind you to be silent?”

“Oh, right.” Xander waved magnanimously. “Go ahead.”

The Watcher sighed, making Spike bite back on a grin. This was going to be more entertaining than he expected. At least the Watcher had lost the edge of fear, as if Spike was going to go mad, leap across the table, and latch onto his leathery old neck. 

Spike leaned forward, and none of the humans even flinched. For a moment, he teetered on the edge of going to game face, just to scare them, but Joyce noted that he needed to build a relationship with her friends. He thought of Buffy’s eyes last night when she let him lay her on his bed and take off her shirt, of her quiet “I trust you.” No, for his Slayer, he’d be friendly and trustworthy, helpful, even. He cleared his throat. “What do you want to know, then, Watcher?”

December 1998

“So, then,” Buffy went on, facing a rapt Joyce and Faith, “Spike introduced Giles as his scribe, Willow as his techno-mage, and… ‘Xander.’ Didn’t even try to explain him.”

“Ha!” Faith gave a cheeky grin. “Blondie said he was going introduce him as ‘demon chow.’”

“Yeah, not so much with the funny in front of a whole audience of demons.” Buffy reached for her mug of hot chocolate. They were gathered around the kitchen table, her mother having waited up for Faith to return from patrol and Buffy to return from Spike’s first court since reclaiming the position of Master of Sunnydale. “His rules are out there, anyway.” Which were really the rules she’d given him.

“Were there other vampires there?” Joyce asked.

“No, only his minions. When’s the last time you ran across a vamp, Faith?”

She cocked her head to the side as she thought. “Maybe two weeks ago? Not long after Thanksgiving.” Two days after Spike moved into his loft, Joyce persuaded the dark-haired Slayer to leave the rundown motel and stay in the guest room. Other than some tension around sharing a single bathroom, the two Slayers were getting along.

“I counted sixteen kinds of demons. Giles said thirteen of the species were dangerous, but Spike says it’s really only seven or eight. Most of them looked pretty human, actually.”

Joyce swirled her cup, trying to get the remaining marshmallows lined up on the side of the mug near her lips. “That makes sense. Since humans rule the world, the demons who fit in best would be the ones to thrive.”

“The best part was when Willow started the PowerPoint presentation. I swear to you that all the demons said ‘ooooh’ just like an audience would on The Simpsons.”

“That’s what impressed them?” Faith asked. “Not your Slayerly presence?”

Buffy shrugged. “I guess if you live underground or in crypts, PowerPoint has the ability to amaze instead of narcoleptize.”

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Faith teased.

She waved this off. “Except for these three greenish demons. The projector bulb was flickering, and they got hypnotized by the pattern and went comatose.” Buffy got a big grin on her face. “Spike got mega points for being trustworthy and waking them up instead of killing them in their sleep. So that worked out.”

Joyce was still searching for an answer, so she asked her question bluntly. “You said only the vampires who agreed to be Spike’s minions were there. Does that mean Angel didn’t attend?” The new Master required, on pain of quick and gruesome death, a representative of every demon presence on the Hellmouth to show up at court.

Buffy cringed. “He wasn’t there. But he is leaving soon.”

Faith cringed as well, remembering his proposition. “And all by himself.”

“Speaking of men who are trying to be around you,” Joyce said, pinning Faith with a look that made ‘yes, I mean you, young lady’ redundant, “who was the boy driving away from the house when I got home this afternoon?”

“Oh, that was just Larry.”

“Larry?” Buffy asked, sitting up in surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed that he’d be your type.”

“He isn’t. Well, I’m not his type.”

Buffy was still trying to parse this when Joyce relaxed. “Oh, he’s gay?”

At Faith’s nod, Buffy’s mouth dropped. “Larry Blaisdell? Football player Larry?” She made squeezing motions in front of her chest. “Handsy Larry?”

“Yeah,” Faith drawled, obviously surprised by Buffy’s disbelief. “But keep it on the down low, okay? He’s nowhere near out.”

“He’s probably trying too hard to keep people from really noticing,” Joyce said, patting Buffy’s arm. 

Faith gave her a reassessing look. Mrs. S was cooler than she thought. “He’s the nicest guy I’ve met in Sunnydale,” she said with a shrug.

“Of course. I won’t say a word.” Buffy was still shaking her head. “Jeez, think you know a jerk…”

Reassured that her new young friend was safe from temptation, Joyce turned to her daughter. “Now that he’s introduced you as the boss of everything Hellmouth, does Rupert finally believe that Spike isn’t planning your demise?” she asked, finishing the last of her cocoa.

“Yeah. I think even Xander realizes that he’s a way different type of vamp.”

Faith leaned over to nudge her sister Slayer. “Yeah, the hotter kind.”

“Oh, shush,” Buffy said, not bothering to blush.

“And on that note,” her mother said, “I’ll say good night. You two try to get at least a little sleep.” She paused on her way to the door. “And I want you both for dinner tomorrow. No excuses.”

“Yes, Mom,” Buffy intoned. 

Faith nodded, too, trying unsuccessfully to look disgusted at the command. She waited until she could hear Joyce’s footsteps on the stairs. “Okay, girlfriend, deets.”

“Details? About what?” Buffy asked innocently.

Faith reached out and pushed the collar of her jacket to the side, revealing a hickey. “About this, for starters. What did you guys do after that meeting?”

Her eyes rounded as she grabbed the fabric and unsuccessfully tried to look down at her neck for the red mark. “Oh, God! Is it really obvious? Did Mom see?” Buffy looked more horrified by this possibility than any rampaging demon.

Faith started to tell her it was huge, but didn’t have the heart to tease. “Nah, I only saw it ’cause I was sitting on this side.”

Buffy put her hand on her neck with bad aim, covering the skin above the love bite. “He’s so dead.”

“Yeah, he kinda is.”

She rolled her eyes at Faith’s joke. “He isn’t supposed to leave marks where people can see.”

Dark eyebrows shot up. “Only where people can’t see?” Instead of replying, Buffy’s eyes rounded. One of her hands made an abortive movement toward her upper thigh. Faith began to grin. “Oh, now I have to see your legs.”

Her face beet red, Buffy quickly rose from her chair. “Oh, look how late it is. Good night, Faith!”

“Damn, B.” Faith stood, too, impressed, and stalked closer. “Let me see.”

She was very grateful she was wearing jeans today. “Nope! There’s stubble and, um, I better get to bed.” Buffy edged toward the hallway.

“Hey, I’m hanging with Larry. Let me live vicariously.”

“Nothing to see.” This was a bit too true, because Spike had stolen her panties.

“Don’t make me chase you,” Faith said, stalking closer, a knowing smile on her face. “Just let me see this hickey… on your inner thigh…”

Buffy fled, giggling madly. She made it to the upstairs bathroom with just enough time to slam the door shut and lock it behind her.

***

With a grunt, Buffy crashed into one of the support posts. Padded though it was, she’d landed badly. She slumped to the mats that covered the concrete floor beneath the loft apartment. Sparring with her vampire could get intense, but it rarely led to real injury.

In a blink, Spike stopped bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation of her next move and knelt beside her. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

She swatted his hands away and gave him a rueful look. “I forget how fast you are.” Buffy gingerly felt her ribs and drew in an experimental breath. “I’m okay.”

He still looked displeased. “My fault. Shouldn’t have lost focus. Not like that post isn’t always there.”

Buffy reclined on the mat, resting on her elbows and looking up at him. “What do you mean, lost focus?”

Spike glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Your, um… That’s not a sports bra you’re wearing.”

“You got distracted watching my boobs?”

He winced. “Yeah?”

Buffy lifted a brow. “Pig.”

“Well, in my defense, they’re just so lush and pretty when they jiggle.”

She couldn’t hide her smile any longer. The Slayer loved testing her greater strength against his speed and experience. When she won, she always felt so powerful and confident. The way he looked at her made her feel the same, only as a woman instead of a warrior. Grabbing him by the wrist, she yanked him to the mat beside her. “If it’s that distracting, I’ll just have to leave an extra button undone on my next patrol.”

His scowl was immediate. “You will not.” Spike rolled so he could cover her breasts with his hands. “Mine.” He growled her name.

Buffy slid her hand up to cup his neck and drew him into a long kiss. When she broke away for air, she licked her lips and growled his name in return.

Spike tensed and shifted a few inches away, his hands now on her elbow and knee. “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you, love.”

Her brows drew together. “Something serious?”

“No, just… Matter of honesty.” He met her eyes. “Demon did the best he could, yeah? Way he thinks of you an’ all…” His expression was pleading. “No word for Buffy in his language – and who knows what ‘Buffy’ even means – so he named you,” Spike took a steadying breath, “‘mate.’”

“Mate?” she squeaked, feeling rather like a mammal on a nature show.

“Yeah.” Spike winced again. “Just… His feelings for you… Love, you know? Permanent love.” He started to apologize, but Buffy interrupted him.

“Permanent?”

Hope flared; maybe she wouldn’t be angry over the term. “Both parts of me love the same way, kitten.” His fingers left her knee and went to her temple, brushing back a loose strand of her lovely blond hair. “All-encompassing. Abiding. Faithfully.” Spike growled the word for ‘mate’ once more.

“And what does this mean?” Buffy asked, making the sound for his name.

“The same, mate, only masculine gender.”

A small smile curved her mouth. “Is there a word for Spike?”

He considered this. “Maybe…” he gave a rising growl. “Means something like ‘pointed hand-weapon.’”

“Pointed hand-weapon?” Buffy traced her fingers down his abdomen, stopping when her fingers rested on his belt buckle. She knew how he got the alias ‘Spike,’ but it was kind of a risqué nickname.

“You know that’s just wrong, Slayer.”

She wrinkled her nose adorably. “Yeah, hand-weapon sounds like only you get to touch it. I like,” ‘mate,’ “better.”

God, he loved this woman. “Do you, now?” Spike leaned closer, breathing in the moist warmth of her respiration. Just before their lips met, her eyes rounded.

“Oh!” she realized. “No wonder that made Angel so mad on Thanksgiving.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, giving him a self-satisfied air. “Nice little extra.”

Buffy shook her head in exasperation. “Smug shouldn’t look this good on anybody,” she complained, bringing her mouth to his.

“And Valkyrie shouldn’t be so hot on you, kitten,” he told her between nibbles, “but guess I’m just lucky that way.”

***

“Hi, Angel.” Buffy gave him a rueful smile from the other side of his threshold.

“Buffy.” He sounded surprised, even though he had to have sensed her or at least scented her. “Anything going on?”

“Something weird, actually. Just… May I come in?” He stood away from the door, and she headed toward the sofa. Buffy hadn’t been by the mansion in a couple of weeks, since a futile visit where she strongly suspected he refused to come to the door when she knocked. “Something I wanted to tell you. I took out a cult of chanting… guys? Demons? Whatever they were, they’d sacrificed their eyes and had these creepy runes sewn onto their faces.” Buffy sat down and looked up at him. “Giles found out they were called ‘Harbingers of the First Evil,’ and I kind of saw what they were conjuring.”

He sat on the other end of the sofa, his posture stiff, smelling Spike’s scent on her. Mate. He still couldn’t bring himself to think closely about what happened in Buffy’s backyard on Thanksgiving, but he was certain she didn’t actually know any words in the ancient vampire tongue. It had been a fluke, an appalling coincidence. Growls could be anything. The whole idea that Spike… It was just ridiculous. “Oh?”

“It mentioned you. That’s why I’m here.” She self-consciously tucked her hair behind an ear. Thanks to the First Evil, Buffy had also experienced a vivid, disturbing dream of Angelus stalking one of his victims, a powerless young housemaid. She pushed the horrible vision away. “Have you noticed anything strange lately?”

Angel stopped examining her neck for bite marks and looked aside, distracted from thinking of alternate reasons for Spike’s scent. Buffy could be using the annoying young vampire for information, or muscle, or… or research. He cleared his throat before getting back on topic and admitting, “I have been having nightmares. Unusually detailed nightmares…” He trailed off.

“It bragged that it brought you out of hell.” When he glanced up at her in surprise, she dropped her eyes before adding, “In order to kill me.”

“No,” he protested. “The Powers That Be… They chose me to help you. That’s who brought me back.”

“Is that what that Whistler guy told you?”

Angel froze, his mouth open. After a moment, he looked at the floor. He had no guidance at all since his return. That confused him almost as much as Buffy withholding herself from him. “No. I just… Why else would I be returned?”

She didn’t say anything, though her mouth firmed. Buffy thought the goal of killing the senior Slayer was absolutely a reason he might be paroled from hell by an evil power. She’d had a blind spot for him, after all, had let him past her defenses. The thought of his return reminded her again of the difference between Spike and Angel in their feral states. Angel, snarling and unable to communicate, was such a contrast to how… integrated Spike was with his demon.

The silence grew, so she put on a determined smile and asked, “Are you still thinking of leaving Sunnydale?”

He nodded. “While the days are short, I plan to go down to Los Angeles, see if I can find an apartment or something there.” Faith wouldn’t be going with him, and he hated to think of how alone he’d be again. Not that he hadn’t isolated himself from his acquaintances here out of guilt or, in Buffy’s case, caution. He looked away, studying a small shaft of sunlight playing on the floor where the curtains weren’t quite closed.

“You’ll do good work there, I know you will.”

There was no distress underlying her voice, no pain. Angel wasn’t used to how firm and confident she sounded. “Is Spike still in town?”

As though Angel wouldn’t know. “He is. He’s the one who tracked down the Harbinger guys.” The real story was much less dramatic. Spike went with her to get a Christmas tree for her mother and by chance heard the sound of chanting from a cavern beneath the sales lot. “We’re still working through the Mayor’s schedule of visiting demons, too.” By ‘work,’ she meant that they dismantled the bad guys who came looking for tribute from Sunnydale. Spike and Buffy were incredible warriors alone, but the two of them together, with Spike fighting on her left, were the equal of forty-six vampires. She knew this for a fact; she’d counted the piles of dust.

Angel caught the expression of happy remembrance on her face and came to the wrong conclusion. The irritating boy was being helpful, eager to fit in like he had with their family, probably trying to woo her with his useless, human-tainted ways. Spike was just after his leftovers again, that’s all. It was a sad form of hero worship, Angel supposed. He really needed to make her understand. “You deserve a normal life, Buffy. You’ll never have that with a vampire around. That’s why I’m leaving.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Is that why?” Not because she wouldn’t be his girlfriend without benefits?

“It is,” he said earnestly. He leaned forward, his sincere brown eyes pleading. “You deserve a future, the chance at children, at a life lived in sunlight. Something normal and human. All a vampire can give you is darkness and death.”

Buffy gave him a pensive look, thinking of the treasure Spike planned to seek after the holidays. He thought she might want a relationship in sunlight, too. The difference was that Spike went about making it a reality instead of excusing himself and brooding about it. 

She briefly touched Angel’s clasped hands. Then she sat up straight on the edge of the sofa. “You’re very sweet to want good things for me. I want good things for you, too. But you know I’m the Slayer. My life, however long it lasts, isn’t ever going to be normal.” She stood up and gave him the smile she usually reserved for Xander, one that wasn’t too warm or intimate. A fond, sisterly smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for in L.A. Goodbye, Angel.” She paused at the edge of the room and added without quite turning around, “Merry Christmas.”

***

“Did you have a happy Christmas, love?” Spike asked, his voice low so he wouldn’t disturb Joyce or Faith. He and Buffy were just back from a quick patrol late on Christmas day, and the only lights on in her house were the strands that wrapped the Christmas tree.

“Mm-hmm.” Buffy led him farther inside so she could close the door behind him, and then stopped abruptly, right beneath the French doors. “Did I tell you I found out who Mom’s New Year’s Eve date is?”

“It’s Rupert.”

Buffy huffed. “Well, yeah. But did you know it’s their second date?”

His eyebrows rose in acknowledgement of her superior intel. “I did not. When did they squeeze that in?”

She shrugged. “Well, we’ve been kind of busy.”

“Yeah, some of us very busy, you sneaky minx.” 

Her smile was smug with remembrance. “Did you like your Christmas present?” Buffy had snuck into his flat and changed his sheets to red satin a couple of days ago. She’d been sitting on his bed in white lace underwear and a red Santa hat when he got home.

Spike’s voice dropped half an octave. “I loved my Christmas present.” They hadn’t made love yet, but they were getting to know each other’s bodies intimately.

“I had,” she walked her fingers up his chest to place her index finger on his lower lip, remembering the look of awe on his face when he found her in his bed, “a wonderful Christmas.” 

“Get everything you wanted?”

“Almost,” she replied, drawing out the word as she nibbled on his jaw. Her mother gave her a gorgeous leather jacket, her father mailed her a large check, Willow got her a cashmere sweater, and Xander gave her a boxed set of the Evil Dead movies.

Spike gave gifts as extravagantly as he gave love. His presents to her included a diamond tennis bracelet, a pair of rapiers with elaborate hilts for fencing one another, indulgent day passes for four to a spa for pampering, and a homemade coupon book for personal driving lessons from one blond vampire. 

He drew in a sharp breath as her nails scratched along his back. “Soon, love.”

“Oh? You’re going to give me a convertible for those driving lessons after all?” she teased. He growled and nipped at her throat in warning, even as she laughed. Buffy stilled and grew serious. “Look up,” she urged. As he lifted his head to find a ball of mistletoe hanging right over their heads, she bit his Adam’s apple, causing him to growl in a rougher timbre. She’d discovered that nibbling on her vampire’s neck was the fastest way to initiate a makeout session.

“Excellent pagan tradition,” he allowed, sweeping her into a kiss that left her gripping his arms, pressing the leather of his duster into his flesh. “I love you, Buffy.”

She wanted to say it; she was so close. The month he’d been in her life as something other than an enemy were the best weeks of her post-Chosen life. The realization that love could be about joy and laughter rather than misery was astounding. It shouldn’t have been, but apparently she’d had bad taste in partners in the past. 

“You make me so happy,” she said instead. The feeling was there, and the words were coming. If she hadn’t said them to Angel, made them into cheap tinsel instead of precious metal, she could give them freely now.

Spike didn’t press. Instead, he gave her a smile and a look of such wonder that she wanted to sugar him with kisses. “You make me happy, too, kitten. Just being with you… Such an amazing feeling.”

January 1999

Spike loomed out of the shadows next to the SUV. “’Lo, Joyce. Need help with the bags?”

She put her hand over her chest. “You scared me!”

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug and an unrepentant grin. “I tend to do that.”

Joyce drew in a deep breath before handing him two paper sacks of groceries. “You aren’t patrolling with Buffy tonight?”

“There’s been an Oz development,” he said, rushed and breathy, in a fair Valley girl accent, “and there must be much dish.”

She stilled as she reached for the last bag. “I’m a little worried that I understood that. So, they’ve made up.”

“I can’t think of anything else that would get her this excited.”

“Buffy’s at the Rosenberg’s?”

Spike nodded and moved aside so she could close the car door. “I’m meeting her there for patrol at ten.”

Frowning, Joyce fiddled with her keys until she found the one for the back door. “How late will you be?”

“I’ll try to have her back by midnight, but…” He shrugged. It really depended on what they happened upon. “Nothing big moving around Sunnydale on my radar, at least. How was Saint Frank?”

“Good. I always like going up there – I can’t justify flying to L.A., but San Francisco is just far enough. I found a couple of nice pieces. Just paintings, so the shipping was easy.” The pair began to put away the groceries as she talked. By now, Spike knew where everything went on the shelves. When they finished, she gave him a searching look. “Not that I don’t appreciate your help, but why did you really stop by?”

Spike, master vampire though he was, dropped his eyes. “Uh, couple things. Wanted to let you know that Angel left town.”

“Finally.” Joyce’s mouth set in a flat line for a moment. “Thank you for showing me those moves with the axe, even if I never got a chance to use it.”

“Something else’ll come along,” Spike said thoughtlessly, then winced. “I mean, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“And the other thing?” 

He imagined her with the axe in her hands and winced again. Instead of answering, he reached into an inner pocket of his duster and produced a box, holding it out to her.

Joyce took the small box and raised the lid. She ran a finger over the two objects inside, one pointy and one smooth. “They’re lovely.”

“Buffy’s birthday is coming soon. Thought I’d see if you think this present would be all right.” Feeling awkward as he waited for Joyce’s response, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

She traced the two items again. “Spike, they’re exquisite. This one is for patrol? For when she fights?”

Spike nodded, his nerves ratcheting tighter. “Yeah.” She really hadn’t answered the question.

Her expression was sad as she closed the box and gave it back to him. “You really accept her as she is, don’t you? I’m afraid I only want to see my little girl, not ‘the Chosen One.’”

“Harder for me to see Buffy, honestly, than to see the Slayer. But once I really saw her… Goner, me.” The vampire shuffled his feet, his boots clumsy in the suburban kitchen. “Know she’s too good for me. Know she’s going to go to college next autumn… Just, want her in my life. Need for her to know that I – how much I care.”

Joyce nodded to herself, then forced a smile. “She’s going to be thrilled,” she reassured Spike as she pulled him into a hug, smiling at little at his bashful pleasure at her gesture. “But I feel kind of bad about the gift card to Macy’s that I’m going to give her.”

***

“…and Oz was waiting by my locker,” Willow said with a sigh, “just like he said he would.”

“So,” Buffy raised an eyebrow, “all is forgiven?” They were sitting on the end of Willow’s neatly made bed. Willow held her most prized possession, the witch-shaped Pez candy dispenser Oz had given her, in a death grip.

The redhead’s happy expression dimmed. “Maybe? Not forgotten, I know that… But he is talking to me again.” She drew in a deep breath. “I really missed that.”

“Oz talks?” Buffy teased.

“He does! To me. I mean, he did.” Willow’s eyes widened. “Everything he says is so sweet. Or deep. He’s so smart, Buffy, and I really like that.”

“And while Xander is sweet and fun, he’s not another genius like you.” She had a new appreciation for a partner who was an equal.

Willow shook her head. “I really don’t know what I was thinking. O-or what he was thinking. I still feel so guilty.” She looked down at the Pez dispenser before reverently placing it on the nightstand.

“Come on,” Buffy said, “this is good. Sounds like you and Oz are back on the right track. And guilt is limited. You know that Xan and Cordelia weren’t going to be together forever.”

Nodding, her friend changed the topic. “What about you and Spike? Together forever?”

Buffy went still and looked down at her hands. “I told him I loved him. New Year’s kiss,” she admitted shyly.

“Wow,” Willow said, a little stunned. “That’s romantic. And… kinda soon?”

The Slayer gave a helpless shrug. “I know, right? But I would have told him before Christmas if I hadn’t already called what I had with Angel ‘love.’”

“You don’t think you loved Angel?” Her eyes widened.

“I don’t think it’s the same kind of love,” Buffy said, wishing she had better words. “I mean, I can say ‘puppy love,’ but I don’t think that’s really it. I loved who I thought he was,” she dropped her head onto Willow’s shoulder, “but I never knew him. He never let me know him. So, how could it be love?”

Red hair rested against blond. “I get it. I know Xander because I’ve always known Xander, but Oz lets me see him.”

“Spike’s demon loves me,” Buffy said. “All by itself, without any of the leftover William. And that part loves me, too. Angel never loved me like that.”

Drawing away, Willow lifted her eyebrows. “And Spike doesn’t have a soul to lose...”

Buffy suppressed a smile. “If you’re asking… No, we haven’t. But we’ve made out a lot. That’s another thing I didn’t do with Angel. We went from zero to a thousand miles an hour, with not much in between.”

“What kind of in between are you having with Spike?” she teased.

It was Buffy’s turn to grow pink. “Just… stuff.”

“Good stuff?”

“Well… we spar.”

“You fight?”

“No, we…” She covered her face with both hands. “It’s like a game, you know, when you’re both playing at the same level? He’s hard to hit, because he’s so fast, and he isn’t fragile or anything. It’s like tennis, where you keep the volley going forever, and it makes you so happy with your partner.” So happy you tackle him against the walls of the closest mausoleum, holding him there while you kiss him and his hands map your body.

“So, you like hitting him?”

“No! Well, yes, but not like real fighting.” They didn’t hold back, but their bruises healed fast. She tried to think of how to explain. “Just, everything we do together makes me want him more. He accepts that I’m the Slayer. He gets it, that fighting is part of me… so we fight.”

“So, then you touch him with things other than your fists,” Willow deduced. “And it’s good?”

“Oh my God, Wil – so good. He, you know, takes care of me way more than I take care of him. I almost think he likes…” she trailed off, thinking of a delicate way to say it, “giving me happies more than he likes them for himself.”

“So… he’s generous?”

“Spike’s a major donor. He’s a benefactor. A philanthropist. He’s given so much, he gets naming rights for my stadium.” She made a face. “Which makes me sound like a sport with goalposts and smelly locker rooms. I’m bad with analogies.”

“I want Oz to be my first. I hope he’ll forgive me.”

Buffy gave her a sad smile. “I wish Spike would be my first.” She patted Willow’s wrist. “But it could still happen with you and Oz. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And he’s made an overture. I think you guys are getting back together. I’m rooting for you.” She gave her friend an impulsive hug.

Willow squeezed her back. “Well, I’m rooting for you and Spike, too.”

***

“I see,” Giles said, his voice faint, the phone dropping away from his face.

Buffy looked up from her English assignment, something in her Watcher’s tone catching her attention. He stood in the library office, oddly stiff even for someone with such good posture. She was still staring, her brows drawn together in concern, when he hung up a minute later. “Giles? You okay?”

“Er, yes,” he said faintly, walking around the end of the checkout counter. “I just had some rather… unexpected news.” Rupert gazed at her for another moment, not really seeing her quizzical expression, then cleared his throat. “The head of the Council, Quentin Travers… He passed today.”

“Passed?”

“Died,” Giles elaborated. “Airplane crash in a field forty miles west of London.” 

“Oh. That’s…” Buffy grimaced. “I’d feel like a hypocrite if I pretended to be sad. It’s the Council, Giles. You and Merrick are the only good things about it. Look how they’re treating Faith.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice still faint. The Council abandoned Faith Lehane on their doorstep with a small cheque for ‘moving expenses’ that she used to pay for her dump of a motel room until Joyce insisted that she move in with her and Buffy. Faith still didn’t have a Watcher after her last one was killed close to her eighteenth birthday by a vampire the Council pointed toward the girl. Killing Kakistos had fallen to Buffy when he followed the second Slayer to Sunnydale. And now, just before Buffy’s own eighteenth birthday, Quentin Travers was dead in a fiery crash, along with four other Watchers and one prisoner, a crated, insane vampire called Zachary Kralik.

The only person he’d discussed the upcoming Tento di Cruciamentum with was Spike. They’d shared a good bottle of Scotch on Boxing Day when he told the blond man about the bodge the Council had made of Faith’s rite of passage. He’d complained that his own Slayer had already been held in a room, weakened, with a vampire – the Slayer of Slayers, no less. Giles said that he sent a letter to headquarters in London underlining her accomplishments and the fact that Buffy had already been tested, expressing his firm belief that she could gain no benefit from a repeat. The Watcher hadn’t been surprised that Spike knew of the barbaric trial. The vampire had listened thoughtfully, agreed with his misgivings, and changed the subject.

And now Buffy wouldn’t be subjected to the archaic ritual. The acting Council head was Archibald Allen, who had lost his Slayer on her eighteenth birthday in the late sixties. For obvious reasons, he disapproved of the Tento di Cruciamentum and had lobbied for years for its abolishment.

“Were you close?” Buffy asked, showing sympathy for her Watcher, if not the ones who were lost.

“No.” He shook his head, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead. “Travers was rather horrid, actually.” 

“Well, you should come over for dinner,” Buffy mused, “because you probably don’t want to be alone.” Her voice went sly. “Mom probably wouldn’t mind seeing you.” His Slayer looked back down at her work. “It’ll be just me and Mom if you don’t come. You can talk to her and ‘process’ and stuff.”

“Er, thank you. Perhaps I will.” If the vampire wasn’t going to be there. They’d dined together at the Summers’ house and talked several other times, but today was different. Today he might be an evil vampire.

Could Spike have somehow sabotaged the airplane, with its flight plan showing a final destination of Sunnydale, California? Did he have that much reach, enough to engineer a plane crash across the pond? The vampire would do it; of that he had no doubt. Spike would do anything to keep this Slayer safe, and he had no soul to put brakes on his impulses. 

Giles put the troubling thought aside. Commercial air travel was very safe, but small, private planes crashed all the time. He didn’t need to go looking for conspiracies to explain the tragic – and fortuitous – incident.

And he rather liked Archibald Allen, much more that the chilly and calculating Quentin Travers. In his opinion, the Council was in much better hands.

***

Buffy squinted at the small vial of fluid as she held it up to the overhead lights in the library, understanding none of the chemical symbols listed on the green sticker. “This is what took away my Slayer strength?” she asked.

Giles nodded before glancing at Spike, who leaned stiffly against the edge of the table. “And the one with the red label is what suppressed your demon.” The vampire nodded.

Buffy put the vial back in the box with the rest, keeping her fingers carefully away from the needles and old-fashioned plunger. “Any idea what’s in there?” She pushed it across the table to Faith, giving her a chance to examine the box, too. It was just the four of them tonight.

The dark-haired Slayer recoiled a few inches from the concoctions. “Is this similar to what the Council used on me last summer?” 

“Not my area of expertise. I’ll be sending it to the Council for testing,” Giles said. The Watchers in London were much more willing to provide help than they had a week ago. Faith would have a dedicated Watcher of her own by February.

“Where did Wilkins get it?” Buffy wondered.

“One of my minions was a medic in the US Army in the seventies,” Spike said, his voice low and rumbling with anger. “He said the lot number on those vials looked similar to the ones on the vaccine bottles he used to give to enlisted men before they shipped out.”

“The Army?” Buffy echoed, confused.

Spike nodded stiffly. “He reckons the formulas are based on muscle relaxants, but,” the vampire touched his nose, “there are demon fluids in them, too.”

“Eww,” the Slayer said, wrinkling her nose.

For the first time since Mayor Allen Finch handed over the box he’d found in a hidden compartment in his city hall office, Spike smiled. “Think it’s something along the lines of venom, love. Paralytics to immobilize prey or the like.”

Buffy’s upper lip remained lifted. “Still ooky.”

Faith pushed the box away from her. “This has to be connected to that lab under the college. I mean, the name ‘Colonel Walsh’ was all over Mayor Wilkins’ calendar.” She looked between her sister Slayer, their Watcher, and Buffy’s hottie. “We still gonna blow it up?”

Buffy shivered a little. The whole gang – except for Cordelia, who was still keeping her distance from them in hopes of recapturing her Queen C crown – snuck onto the UC-Sunnydale campus one night for a clandestine tour underneath Lowell House. The facility wasn’t complete, but the purpose of the surgical bays and cells was obvious. Having been drugged and held captive already, it was too easy to imagine herself in those cells. Or worse, her family or friends. “Willow is still looking. She’s pretty sure that ‘Colonel’ Walsh is the same as the psychology professor Maggie Walsh. Wil thinks that if she exposes the plans to enhance the ‘students’ assigned to that dorm, the publicity will kill the project.”

“The American people do not approve of experimenting on brave soldiers,” Spike intoned, trying for both a politician’s rhetoric and a vaguely Texan accent.

“And then we’ll blow it up?” Faith pressed. 

“Absolutely,” Giles said, sounding very hard. “If the government isn’t going to occupy the lab down there, something even worse would move in.” He lifted a shoulder. “Hellmouth, after all.”

***

Buffy automatically passed the bag of Cheetos to Xander from her place on the floor before she stretched out a leg to brush her toes against Willow’s. Both of them were wearing fuzzy socks, a concession to the mild chill of a California winter.

“All right, ladies,” Xander said, picking up the remote, “ready for more Ashy goodness?” They were in the midst of a marathon watch of the Evil Dead movies.

“Sure, I like the third one,” Willow said. “It’s funnier than the other two.”

When neither of her friends moved, Buffy rolled her eyes and shifted to reach for the boxed set. “I strongly suspected that you got this for my Christmas present as a dig against Spike,” she said, getting the next videotape ready, “but now I know you were just getting it for yourself.”

“Hey! That was a very well-researched gift, relevant to your job and everything,” Xander protested. When Buffy just rolled her eyes, he grew thoughtful. “You really thought I was throwing off on Captain Peroxide?”

“You’ve called him ‘Evil Dead’ a time or two,” Willow observed.

Frowning, Xander thought about it. “No, pretty sure that was the Great Fanged Broody One.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. Sure, Spike’s Evil Dead, but he’s not so bad.”

“He kidnapped us,” Willow pointed out, curious about his change of heart.

“Yeah, but that was before.”

“Before?” Willow asked. Buffy’s movements slowed as she switched DVDs, not wanting to turn around just yet, holding her breath as she waited for the next words.

“Before he joined our side.”

“You think he’s joined our side?”

Xander gave Willow a pointed look. “You think he hasn’t?”

“Well, yeah, I guess he has,” she backpedaled. “But since when –” Her eyes grew round. “That’s who you were with last Thursday at the Bronze.”

This got Buffy to turn around. “It was you? He said he played a few games of pool with a nice bloke.”

He looked between his two friends, both staring at him in utter surprise. “What? Can’t a couple of guys play pool without it being a federal case?”

“It’s just…” Buffy slumped a little. “You always hated Angel.”

“What’s not to hate?” Xander asked reasonably. He leaned forward, handing the Cheetos to Willow. “And that’s another thing about Spike. He hates Deadboy almost as much as I do.” As he fell back against the cushions, he added in a low voice. “Plus, he’s been training me how to fight.”

“He has?” Buffy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Yeah. I’m trainable,” Xander huffed.

“Of course you are,” Buffy said, putting in the video and coming back to sit beside Willow on the floor. “And I’m glad you guys are training. Giles should have taught you, both of you, a little more about fighting. Or I should have.” She took the bag of Cheetos from Willow’s hands, which were still lax with surprise.

“You think he’d teach me, too? And maybe Oz?” Willow shot Buffy an apologetic look. “Or you both could.”

“I could ask.” The young man shrugged. “It’s not like we have a schedule or anything.”

Listening to them, Buffy suppressed a smile. Xander liking and getting along with one of her boyfriends… It was like an early birthday present.

***

Buffy paused at the top of the stairs to look at the banner strung above the door to the loft: ‘Happy Birthday!’ It was the Friday just after her eighteenth birthday. She and Spike celebrated quietly with her mother and her friends at her house, going with Faith’s idea for an impromptu party after her father cancelled their annual outing to the ice skating show. Spike offered to deliver her father to Sunnydale anyway, in shackles, but Buffy demurred. Her vampire had already given her a beautiful necklace with a modest diamond pendant, but it looked like he still had something planned to mark her official entry into adulthood.

Giving a feline smile of anticipation, she opened the door to find his loft apartment in darkness. “Spike?” she called. 

His bleached hair was the first thing she saw as he moved out of the gloom. Spike smiled at her, fangs on display. She raised her eyebrows. “It isn’t that dark in here, Mr. Golden Eyes.”

His smile widened as he lifted his hands to cover his mouth. With an apologetic shrug, he halved the distance between them.

She raised an eyebrow, another smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “You can’t lose the bumpies, huh? Can’t speak?”

He made a tragic, if terrifying, face and shook his head.

“That’s too bad, since I was going to ask you about the birthday banner over the door.” By now, he was close enough for her to reach for his hands.

Spike’s smile widened as he clasped her warm fingers. Buffy, his incredible Buffy. His. He held up her index finger, turned his eyes upward in consideration before closing them, and pretended to blow out a flame from her fingertip.

Buffy was smiling at him when he opened his eyes. “What did you wish for?”

In answer, he caught her close in an embrace and sighed in contentment. Spike pulled away to point at her. I wished for you. Smiling, fangs glinting in the dim light, he pointed at himself, outlined a heart with both hands, and then pointed at her.

Buffy smiled, privately thinking that Spike’s demon wouldn’t make a valentine shape to indicate a heart. He would be more familiar with the literal, four-chambered shape with dangling arteries. “I love you right back.”

Vampire face or not, she could see the way her words lit him from inside. She first saw it when she told him on New Year’s Day, after a kiss that literally lasted for the first four minutes of the year. Every time she said it, he reacted the same way, with awe and almost disbelief, as though he could hardly imagine his good fortune to hear those words from her. Happy, he spun her around, moving her past the standing screens that shielded the bed from immediate view in the open loft.

When he didn’t kiss her, Buffy moved her head from his shoulder to look around curiously. Boxes and buckets were stacked along one wall, all covered with plain white sheets. Also new were two tiny boxes on the dark green velvet throw Spike kept over the foot of the bed. For birthday present purposes, Buffy chose to focus on the small, jewelry-sized boxes. “And what might you have on your bed?”

He growled her name hopefully.

“Anytime,” she growled back, adding his own name in the vampire language. She also knew how to say ‘more’ and ‘yes!’ in vampire. They’d spent many pleasant evenings in his bed post-patrol, though they technically still hadn’t made love. Some might argue that Spike was evil because he didn’t have a soul; Buffy thought he proved his wickedness by refusing to debauch her before she was legally an adult.

Which she was now.

She’d teased him for flunking Big Bad 101, but Spike shrugged apologetically and mumbled something about waiting out of respect for Joyce. She had an idea that he wanted to prove he was different from Angel, too, more honorable. It did warm Buffy’s heart that her vampire liked her mother so much, but she wanted her other parts warmed as well.

Spike already had more than fulfilled her fantasies of what he could do with his tongue when allowed more than two strokes through her clothing. His fingers, too, now had starring roles in some of her most wanton daydreams. Buffy learned what he liked as well, bringing him to roaring pleasure as she explored his body. She finally found a good description for Willow: she was learning to drive on a performance sports car, his powerful body and constant arousal under her control, finding what would turn his eyes to a blind gold and leave his sheets in shreds beneath his clenched, clawed hands.

Buffy could never talk him off the test track, though. “After your birthday,” he rumbled against her neck the last time she’d asked – begged. She never pointed out that she wasn’t a virgin, and he never pointed out that he wasn’t Angel. She felt inexperienced anyway, in the face of his sheer sexual prowess, but being in his bed was never full of dread and anxiety the way being in love with Angel so often made her feel. Instead, she was growing in confidence, and their lovemaking was a thing of laughter and passion, fun as well as pleasure. She couldn’t wait to hold him inside her body.

And she wasn’t going to wait any longer.

Well, not once she found out what was in the little boxes.

An impish grin on his ferocious face, Spike led her to the foot of the bed. He started to pull away, then changed his mind and gave her a long, sweet kiss, careful of his fangs. He gestured to the presents on the bed with a flourish, then picked up one of them. 

Golden eyes shining, he knelt on the floor before her, looking up with a monster’s face and a man’s love. He touched his left hand to the spot over his unbeating heart, then moved to open the hinged lid. Biting his lip and giving her a pleading look, he offered her the box.

Two rings nestled inside. Confused at first, it took Buffy a moment to realize he was giving her two diamond-and-emerald engagement rings. One was a standard, princess-cut diamond solitaire, flanked by pairs of emeralds. The other featured an Asscher-cut emerald in the center, bordered by diamonds, all of the stones flush against the delicate, filigreed white gold setting. It only took another second for her to realize that one was for the daytime and the other was for the night, designed for when her fingers had to curl into a fist.

He wanted the woman and the Slayer both.

Buffy pulled her hand away and covered her mouth, tears coming to her eyes. She used to fantasize about marrying Angel in a big church wedding. For his part, he gave her a handfasting ring, an interim kind of engagement. The meaning of this ring, though, was concrete and unmistakable. Spike would never give her less than his whole self.

When she didn’t say anything, Spike’s demon faded, leaving a man with anxious blue eyes staring up at her. “Say yes,” he pleaded, “and make me the happiest man on earth.”

Her tears spilled over. “Yes,” Buffy managed. “Of course it’s yes.” A laugh bubbled out of her. “Oh, Spike. Yes!”

Her vampire was suddenly on his feet, kissing her, his own laughter against her lips. “Oh, love,” he managed, relief in the words, as though she would ever consider saying no or want a life without him. Spike picked her up and spun her around a couple of times, his head thrown back in joy as he laughed.

“Well?” When he looked up at her in confusion, she grinned. “I’d kind of like to try them on.”

“Oh!” Still in an incredulous daze, he put her down. She said yes! Taking the diamond solitaire from its nest, he slid it onto her left hand.

“It’s huge,” she managed, splaying out her fingers.

“Not the only time you’ll be saying that tonight,” he murmured.

“…. and pretty,” she went on, smacking his shoulder for the tacky comment. Buffy grinned anyway. “Let’s see the other one.”

“You can wear them stacked,” he said, demonstrating by sliding the emerald ring onto her finger above the first one.

“I don’t know,” she said, admiring the stones. “They take up the whole knuckle.”

“Because you’re so dainty.”

Buffy fake-glared at him. “Are you saying I’m small?”

He didn’t bother answering, just placed her hand on his chest. “Looks good like that.”

Her mouth curved as she imagined a much simpler ring, a gold band. “It does. Mr. and Mrs. the Bloody.”

“I have a real name, you know,” he growled. 

“You do?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t born like this.”

Buffy gave him a sparkling, naughty look. “Mr. and Mrs. Buffy Summers.”

He shrugged. “I’d be honored to join your family.”

All pretense faded from her eyes, only leaving warmth. “You would?”

“William and Buffy Summers? Sounds nice.”

Reality began to seep back into her happy daze. “How long of an engagement do you want?” She hadn’t even graduated high school yet.

He shrugged. “Up to you. We can wait until you’re done with college, you want.” Spike gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m not getting any older.”

“Let’s not wait that long.” Buffy gave him a smooch on his jaw, the thought of her short life expectancy flashing through her mind but not settling in. She couldn’t quite believe Spike’s promises that she’d be the first Slayer the Council would have to pension off, but however many days she had left, she was going to live every one of them to the fullest, with this man beside her. “Maybe not this summer, but the next?”

“Just give me a date and the time, and I’ll be there.” He buried his nose in her hair for a moment, and his voice had gone dark and velvety when he went on. “I’ll plan the honeymoon.”

Buffy’s breath huffed out, and her thighs squeezed together. “Mmmm.” She gave his throat a deliberate bite. “Not waiting until the wedding night.”

“Thank God.”

“I only have other question.”

He raised her hand from his chest to press a kiss into her palm. “And what’s that, love?”

“You’ve already given me two gorgeous rings. What could possibly be in the other box?”

They both half-turned to the bed to look at it. Spike’s attention went back to his Slayer, and he eased her down so that she sat on the end of the mattress. Leaning over, he took the plain box and placed it in her hand before sitting, too, so that their knees touched.

“There’s a ring inside that one, too, one meant for me,” he ducked his head, “if you want me to wear it.”

“The Gem of Amara. You found it,” Buffy whispered. Tears came to her eyes again. He’d dug at three different locations across Sunnydale, always alone, killing any vampires or demons who stumbled across his excavations, understanding the need for absolute secrecy. “You, me, sunrise tomorrow. It’s a date.” She opened the box but didn’t look inside until he nodded in agreement. She wanted to see her British boy in sunshine.

“Wore it already,” he confessed, “just to see which piece of the treasure was the magic stone. It isn’t just sunlight, love,” and Spike waited until she looked up from the poison-green stone to meet his worried gaze, “it’s holy relics, too. It’s powerful. I sliced my hand. Wearing it, I heal instantly.”

“You’d be unkillable,” she whispered.

Spike grimaced. “Yeah. Don’t really want to try a stake to the heart or beheading, but… yeah. Looks like the legends had the right of it.” He looked down, knowing how fragile the acceptance he’d had from her friends really was. He was soulless and had attacked them in the past few months. They wouldn’t care for the idea of him being invulnerable. “Maybe you could keep it for me, you know, for when you want to go out –”

Buffy slid the ring onto his finger.

Spike’s head lifted, and he stared at her with shocked eyes. “Love?”

“Unkillable sounds good,” Buffy whispered. “I want you around always, and you’re in so much danger for choosing me.”

“Pfft,” he said dismissively. It wasn’t bravado, nor was his lack of worry foolhardy. Sunnydale was theirs now, by right of conquest. Fighting together, they had yet to face any group of demons that posed a real challenge.

Patrol wasn’t a chore. Spike loved a good fight and started a fair number himself, but between two Slayers and a master vampire, the Hellmouth was comparatively quiet. Buffy had fun taking on the demons who came to Sunnydale to deal with the late Mayor or who thought they would find a power vacuum. For the first time, she felt that she really had backup, that responsibility for everything didn’t rest on her shoulders. He hated his role as Master, but he did it anyway. For her. He was her champion, and she was just as sweetly protective of him. 

“Anyone tries to rough me up, you’ll give them a good slaying,” he went on.

The opening was too good to pass up. “Yeah? You trust me to take care of you?” When he gave her a besotted look and a nod, she pounced. Literally, pressing him down against the mattress. “Oh, I’ll take care of you, all right.”

“Yeah? What if we take care of each other?” His gaze was molten with desire.

She sat up, delight stealing over her face. “For real this time?”

“Don’t think I can wait a second longer.”

A slow smile took her mouth, curving it into an expression both hungry and satisfied. “Finally.” Buffy put a hand out to ward off the incoming vampire. “But, real quick: what’s all the stuff under the sheets?” She gestured to the piled boxes along the edge of the wall.

Spike leaned backwards to snag one of the cloths, tugging it away. The dim light in the loft was still enough to play off the gleam of gold and the glitter of precious stones. “The rest of the treasure of Amara.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, her eyes traveling over the riches spilling out of the plain white buckets and cardboard boxes.

“Yeah. Reckon Joyce won’t have to worry about affording college any longer. She’s going to arrange an auction to –”

Buffy cut him off with a kiss. “Later,” she said. “The treasure can wait. I can’t.” Pushing him down on the bed again, she straddled him and grinned. “Mate,” she said in the old language.

“Mate,” he growled back. 

That was the last coherent word either of them managed for the next several hours. Even without words, they understood each other just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the 'Protective, feral Spike' challenge by Elysian Fields' pfeifferpack; if this fic is good, it's because of her amazing outline of a challenge. Many thanks to the fabulous PencilComet for her work beta reading and making the story better -- you are very appreciated!


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